


more of the universe

by paintedviolet



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, Fluff, Lots of it, Multi, Some angst, Tumblr Prompts, ah well let's go lesbians, and ryan and graham getting increasingly exasperated with these idiots, expect thirteen and yaz being Soft, let's hope i'm doing this right, thasmin, thasmin are just too cute not to write about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-08-26 17:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedviolet/pseuds/paintedviolet
Summary: "you're like, the best person i've ever met."and here i present my pile of series 11 doctor who one-shots, fics and drabbles i receive from tumblr. mainly thasmin. all of this will be posted on my tumblr (tardis-sapphics) in some form.





	1. sweet escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ice cream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring: taking advantge of ryan's height, ice cream i really wish existed, Deep-Seated Embarrassment and graham severely needing a nap

“Aw! Now _this_ is what I wanted to show you!” the Doctor grinned, letting go of Yaz’s hand and running off into the crowd.

 

A day of rest of relaxation had been prescribed by the Doctor. After the string of adventures they’d had recently – including their highly unusual shift at Kerblam! and Yaz’s trip to see Dan’s daughter – the exhaustion had caught up to them. A trip to bed and a good sleep could do wonders, but emotional exhaustion ended to be deeper still, and a day’s holiday had seemed the best cure.

The galaxies and worlds the Doctor could promise had been at their behest, and the Doctor had fulfilled her role as overly exuberant tour guide with more gusto than usual. As she’d flitted around the TARDIS, instructing Graham to twist this thing here and Ryan to pull that thing there, she’d rattled off the nearest holiday destinations this side of the universe. The only one she had been hesitant to revisit was the planet of Midnight.

She had been saying words, more than anything – Yaz had had no preference for any of them; she had just been content to let the Doctor ramble on in that adorable way she did – but Graham had picked up on a name in amongst the Doctor’s babbling.

“Planet of Hush? That sounds alright,” he’d responded before the Doctor could launch into another story. He’d rubbed his hands down his face, not fully awake after their much-needed sleep. “Could do with some shut-eye still.”

The Doctor had pointed at Graham in excitement. “Hush! Lovely locals. I like your choice, Graham. Not much time for sleeping though. Are we all settled on Hush?”

Yaz had smiled and nodded at the Time Lord, felt the anticipation filling her bones already. Ryan had just shrugged in confirmation.

“Those three hours weren’t enough!” Graham had protested, but the TARDIS had already taken off, starting a new adventure.

So here they were, on the blue sands of Hush’s famous Longora Beach. Everything was overwhelming – the bright colours of the sands, the ginormous houses on stilts, the food stands selling pungent foods. And the _sounds_ of everyone, locals and visitors of the planet alike. Graham had groaned in displeasure. Yaz couldn’t wait.

They’d walked along the beach, unwittingly getting their shoes wet now that everything beneath their feet was blue. The Doctor had helpfully supplied them with all the information she could remember about the popular destination spot, pointing out old friends and new alien races they hadn’t met yet. The bustling environment was helping to brush away the anxieties of their previous adventure. It truly felt like they could get lost here, and exist without any consequences. After giving Dan’s daughter her father’s necklace, it was what Yaz sorely needed.

Besides, any quality time in the presence of the Doctor was what she needed, too. She loved how the Doctor’s eyes lit up at every new little object of interest. She loved how wide that grin could get. She loved how she shined. It was easier to concentrate on that right now.

Even if she ran off at hardly a moment’s notice.

The Doctor could get lost in any crowd she wanted to. But Yaz knew to follow, albeit with a roll of her eyes, and soon enough Yaz, Ryan and Graham had caught up with their friend. They found her in a queue for – ice cream?

“Looks just like the one I used to chase when I was a little lad,” Graham muttered.

The alien in front somehow managed to hear him. “It’s a genuine Earth antique!” they were only too happy to divulge. The antennae on their cheeks quivered with jubilation. “Taken from the nineteen-fifties in Loodon, I think. I’ve been waiting my whole life to see one of these!”

“Must’ve been a very rich donor,” the Doctor mused.

“Rich? Lucky? No one knows. They did it anonymously,” the alien’s companion responded. “They didn’t want a dedication. Can you imagine? But millions – millions – are very grateful.”

“Definitely.” With a sly little nudge, the Doctor shot Yaz a suggestive little smile. Yaz couldn’t help but return it with full force. Not so anonymous then.

It was a hit with the locals, that was for sure. They spent just as much time waiting for the ice cream as they did walking along the beach. (“Mate, you travel across the universe and you _still_ can’t escape queuin’,” Ryan sighed.) When their turn finally came around, Yaz’s expectations had been adequately stoked.

“Yaz, Ryan, Graham, I present to you: Junior Jaraa’s Ice Cream Imitators!” the Doctor crowed with delight as she handed over the ice creams. They looked exactly like the Mr Whippy ice creams from back at home. Yaz and Ryan shared a confused look. “They’re meant to resemble Earthen ice creams but they’re _really_ clever. The cream is infused with little readers that respond to the inside of your mouth. All your hormones, past foods, even the angle of your expressions relative to the structure of your face. Fascinating little things, perfectly safe to eat. And then –” in demonstration, she took a big lick of her ice cream. Immediately, the soft ice cream shimmered a beautiful scarlet red. “—They display how you’re feeling in a colour! Look, there’s the colour chart over there.”

They moved off to read the panel, taking a curious mouthful of the goodness just as it was starting to melt under the three suns of Hush. Like Graham had reminisced, they tasted just like the 99 ice creams at home – full of sugar and happiness. Yaz wanted to eat it all up immediately (how she’d _missed_ these familiar comforts) but her curiosity won out.

Pushing through the throng of tourists crowding round the mood colour panel, the Doctor threw out her hand to steady herself. Yaz instinctively reached to grab it, feeling the blush rise to her cheeks as she realised it wasn’t meant for her. Still, the Time Lord’s glance back at her showed no surprise. Nothing she could interpret but contentment.

At least Ryan was tall enough to see above the crowd. “Alright I got it guys. Green means – hang on – uh – green means... 'excited',” Ryan noted loudly, straining his neck to get a good luck at the small, faraway words. “That sounds cool.”

Graham’s chomp down on his ice cream cone was loud enough to be heard over the bustle of Longora Beach. “Can you look for us? I got caramel.”

It took Ryan a few more moments of stretching. “Graham, you’re ‘hungry’,” he relayed dutifully.

“It ain’t wrong,” was his step-granddad’s self-satisfied response.

“What about scarlet?” Yaz asked, struggling to make herself heard over the wall of sound.

“Same as me,” the Doctor smiled halfway through another mouthful. She was so close – Yaz could hear her clear as day. “My last one of these was definitely a couple of regenerations back. I’ve forgotten what they all stand for.”

“Sure, sure,” Ryan responded. Then he paused. But when he responded, none of them could hear.

“You what?”

He bent forward, surprise colouring his expression. “You two got ‘in love’!”

“Are you sure?” Graham frowned. “Not your eyesight already, is it?”

“Nah, mate, there’s no other red.”

The Doctor couldn’t meet her gaze. Yaz suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.

 

Yaz supposed the rest of Longora Beach was beautiful, but she couldn’t really take it in. She hadn’t really been paying attention; everything was a blur. They’d walked the whole length of the beach, but there had been no escaping it: an air of discomfort had settled over the group, despite Graham’s and the Doctor’s valiant attempts to push past it. Their returned to the TARDIS was earlier than intended, and Graham and Ryan had scuttled off, clearly sensing the awkward tension between the two women.

Now it was just the two of them in the console room, left alone to ruminate on their embarrassment. At least, that was what Yaz had been doing. Ever since the revelation, the Doctor had been completely unreadable. Somehow that made it all worse.

 Yaz had no idea what the Doctor was thinking, but _she_ was kicking herself for being so obvious.

Why couldn’t she have just denied it? Laughed it off, said it was wrong – like those mood rings everyone got as kids, the cheap and unreliable ones? She was good at hiding things. She was a police officer. She had to be, when the stakes were high.

They were never higher than this. She couldn’t be in love. She couldn’t be in love with the Doctor. She was, but she _couldn’t be._

“Mind if I sit there?”

Yaz looked up to see the Doctor standing awkwardly next to her.

“Sure.” It wasn’t like Yaz could say no to a little company. She may have been in love with the Doctor, but the Time Lord was still her best friend.

There passed a minute or so between them. The TARDIS filled the silence with its deep humming, the orange glow fading and swelling as they breathed together. It did nothing to tame the rising tide of dread building in Yaz’s chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?” the Doctor asked softly.

She could smell the sea on the Time Lord, mixed in with a peppermint scent. “Not really.”

From the periphery of her eye, she saw the Doctor nod. “Easier to avoid it, isn’t it? Ignore the feelings. Not get involved. They’re scary, feelings are.”

“Yeah.”

“But you can’t lock ‘em away, because then you lock away everything,” the Doctor continued. “You’re too loving for that.”

Yaz heaved a sigh. Here it was.

“I knew how you felt about me already, Yaz,” the other woman confirmed, and Yaz felt her stomach drop. “Those feelings are too hard to hide. And that’s _okay_ , I promise. It really is.”

“I’m sorry,” was the police officer’s sudden response – a burst of feeling she was unable to hide from the world any longer. Everything unravelled – her words tumbling out from her mouth as a quicker and quicker speed. “I’m sorry that I had to upset things. Thing is, I _love_ travelling with you three, more than anything. I don’t want to jeopardise that. I don’t want it to stop! I can deal with these feelings, that’s fine, I can cope, but I just don’t want anything to change. Please.”

So she said it out loud. She actually said it. Out loud. Okay. Finally she could look up at the Doctor.

And this time the Doctor watched her, hazel eyes round and endlessly understanding.  “ _I_ do.”

 _Oh._ “What?”

Her hand landed on Yaz’s knee, and her thumb started stroking it gently. “I was never gonna be upset by it, Yaz. But it wasn’t a coincidence my ice cream was red, too. _I_ want things to change."

For the first time in a while, Yaz started smiling again.

"It'll be hard," the Doctor continued. Her eyes kept searching Yaz's. "For me. I endanger you just by letting you know that I love you. I didn't want to tell you at first - there are always consequences. But even after deliberating on that I stillwant this. Us. If you’ll have me.”

Yaz swore even the TARDIS had fallen silent.

"Of course," she breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay fr i do actually want ice cream now thanks lads


	2. her favourite part of christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what about Christmas as a prompt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring: yaz being blinded by thirteen's beauty, thirteen's dangly little legs, and lots of feels.
> 
> i kindly suggest you listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Rb5qYqDeD4) song as you read; it's got exactly the atmosphere i want for this one-shot.

Yaz hadn’t wanted to leave the TARDIS tonight.

This was to be their first Christmas since the Doctor had fallen, quite literally, into their lives. After the never-ending wonder and terror being around the Doctor elicited, Christmastime was proving to be a much more relaxed affair. Graham had voiced his relief – no aliens would interrupt  _his_ Christmas dinner, thanks – but Yaz had a suspicion this had been spoken at least partly in jest.

(Plus, this would be the first Christmas that Graham and Ryan would spend without Grace.)

Yaz wasn’t quite as excited for Christmas either. As a Muslim, it was never going to hold the same sort of significance as it did for Graham and Ryan – but like many, her family celebrated the festivity of the day. Not to mention, her mum’s halal Christmas dinner made mouths water from miles away. But, no, it wasn’t family that was the problem. It was the mundanity of partaking in her previous life – the Christmas Day police shift and all. It was time without the Doctor.

Yaz knew, and sometimes despaired over, that wherever the Doctor was, she wanted to be.

Graham and Ryan had already left the TARDIS earlier that evening, to the sound of the Doctor promising a visit on Boxing Day. Yaz had meant to be going with them – she’d put her jacket on, said her goodbyes. But she just – she just hadn’t wanted to go. She hadn’t wanted to leave the Doctor just yet.

The Doctor hadn’t even questioned it. Her gaze had softened in that particular way it did for Yaz, and she’d suggested a Christmas movie as if she did this with any of her previous friends.

(She’d chided herself for it. She knew she couldn’t spend every waking moment with her crush, as much as she wanted to. And she’d explained away the Doctor’s eyes softening in response. The Doctor got lonely too. It was just that.)

A Christmas movie later – in truth, Yaz had no idea what it was called; her attention had been on something else entirely – and Yaz still hadn’t left. Still didn’t want to. The minutes were ticking down. It would be Christmas Day soon.

So the Doctor suggested an idea, and with no small sense of delight she clicked her fingers. The doors to the TARDIS swung open obediently.

They had been on alien planets, swum in seas millions of lightyears from home, but one of the Doctor’s favourite ever sights was the Earth at night. She said the lights resembled Christmas lights at this time of year. All that joy. She liked how much life she could see still going, still dreaming, even as far away as she was.

It was an unusually calm moment for the alien who never seemed to sit still. Yaz was learning, very eagerly, that the Doctor –  _this_ Doctor – rarely let herself have these little moments of quietness. But if she did, it was because she needed them. A moment to breathe, a moment to remember. There was so much of her life that had been carefully hidden away from the rest of Team TARDIS, Yaz was slowly realising – layers of memories, of pain and love and loss – but that didn’t negate its existence. Sometimes things needed to be reflected on.

Yaz felt honoured that the Doctor deemed her important enough to share a quiet moment with her.

They were perched on the edge of the TARDIS; the Doctor had let her legs dangle out into the night, while Yaz had elected to cross hers. Exposed to the cold of space, the Doctor had shuffled up to the police officer so their sides could share some warmth.

Looking down on this globe she called home, this insignificant planet both busy and peaceful and ever-oblivious to the adoring gazes of two women above it, Yaz felt very content indeed.

“Do you do this a lot?” she wondered.

The Doctor turned her head away from her friend again, watching the Earth’s rotation. “Not always. Often I’m too busy getting to the bottom of a problem to catch my breath. The amount of times I’ve had to save the day at Christmas is astounding; I’m amazed it’s still my favourite holiday. After all this time.”

The smile was back again, but even from gazing at the Doctor’s profile Yaz could tell it was a private one. Going through all the memories, she guessed.

It was a beautiful sight. Seeing the Doctor when she thought no one was watching her – now that was a whole other level of special.

Then the Doctor fixed her attention on Yaz again, hazel eyes wide. Her fizziness was subdued but still undoubtedly there. Yaz felt herself blush, caught staring. “Ooh! Did I tell you about the time I met Santa Claus?”

Yaz scoffed. “Santa Claus doesn’t exist.”

“Doesn’t he?” the Doctor’s tone was immediately serious.

Mind you, she  _was_ swinging her legs and smiling to herself. Like the Time Lord’s claim that she was Banksy – Graham had told them afterwards, in a state of genuine confusion – Yaz didn’t quite know whether to trust the statement or not.

She shrugged and let it go.

“What’s your favourite Christmas moment?”

The Doctor hadn’t looked away. Yaz felt her gaze locked, an almost embrace.  (How she  _wanted_ it to be an embrace.) The only sounds between them were their gentle inhales and exhales, and the low hum of the TARDIS.

Here, right now. Being with you.

No, she couldn’t say that. She managed to conjure up a proper answer – one that didn’t admit her gigantic crush on the larger-than-life Time Lord. But as close as she was, a smile still lingering, it was hard to concentrate on anything but the image of the Doctor. She took her breath away.

“Um.” She laughed at herself. “Probably the moment before I have to go to my shift. Or after, depends on the time I’m called in. Everyone gives me a hug – Mum, Dad, Nani, even Sonya. Especially Sonya. She likes the happiness of Christmas even if she swears she doesn’t. I don’t know, it’s nice.”

“I like your sister; she’s funny. Don’t worry, you’re still my favourite.”

Yaz laughed. The fact that the Doctor loved her family so much made her very proud. “What about you, Doctor? What’s the best part of Christmas for you?” she wondered.

The Time Lord looked so content in this moment. The light of the console room was illuminating the left side of her face. As she watched Yaz watching her, the lights from Earth below became pinpricks in her eyes, little stars breaking free from inside the woman who travelled among them. There was a little hesitation in those eyes - what for? Yaz almost couldn’t believe it. Then the Doctor seemed to gain some courage.

“Aside from visiting my friends,” she confessed, “this moment with you.” A longer pause. “I wouldn’t want to spend it with anyone else but you. I mean it. You’re my  _favourite_ , you know.”

Yaz felt the Doctor take her hand, the one that had come to rest on her right thigh. She held the police officer’s hand often, such was the nature of their adventures – but in this moment, with the Doctor’s obviousness in her words, it felt far more significant.  _Far_ more significant.

As she looked down at their entwined hands, Yaz’s breath stuttered. For once, Yaz didn’t try to explain anyway any hidden meaning. The Doctor’s thumb was moving in slow strokes between Yaz’s thumb and her forefinger, and it was so gentle, so tender, that Yaz could feel herself bursting at the feel of it.

“You’re my favourite too,” Yaz admitted. She squeezed the Doctor’s hand in her own. As her gaze returned to her friend, her crush, she witnessed the Doctor’s smile widen into something a lot like relief.

The Time Lord raised their interlocked hands and planted a kiss on the soft brown skin of her companion’s hand. Yaz lay down her head on the Doctor’s shoulder.

Back down in Sheffield, the clock struck twelve. The TARDIS performed her equivalent of church bells ringing for Christmas, a pealing melody to usher in a brilliant new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i feel christmassy in this chili's tonight


	3. to feel right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thasmin prompt: Really nervous smut. Basically Yaz’s first time ever, set after Kerblam. The Doctor wants to make Yaz feel good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring: shakey hands, the Doctor being a good soft girlfriend
> 
> i’ve never actually written anything vaguely resembling smut before so let’s hope this isn’t a Giant Disaster
> 
> also, if you’re not convinced the doctor is utterly Soft in bed you’re wrong thank you for listening to my TEDtalk

The air had a different quality tonight. Something shimmering, something shining.

Every moment was magical in the TARDIS, Yaz thought. The warm orange glow in the console room felt like a silent hug; every clunk of a footstep on the metal floor was an echo of countless dashes to reach the safety of the TARDIS’ shifting walls. She had a memory of the Doctor’s grinning face for every side of the console table, a framed picture in her head of her new friends, of Graham, of Ryan, as the next adventure began. This place – ever new, ever dynamic, ever exciting – still filled her with anticipation even after she’d lost count of all the planets she’d visited on their travels. She’d never tire of being in the TARDIS.

Though, she thinks, that maybe something to do with who she was travelling with too.

Because even if the TARDIS was always magical, it couldn’t hold a handle to the Doctor herself. Yaz had never met anyone like her. She was a breath of fresh air the same time as she took Yaz’s breath away. She was intense. She was patient. She was bursting with child-like wonder and weighed down, sometimes infinitely old. She was a conundrum and Yaz was enjoying every single second of figuring this woman out.

This beautiful, beautiful woman. Her beautiful, beautiful  _girlfriend._

And just like her never-ending awe at their travels – how was it that, even after all this time, the Doctor could make her so nervous? She knewthe Doctor. The Doctor knew her. And yet.

There was something different in the air. Even the TARDIS seemed to be humming at a different pitch. (The Doctor kept giving the console fond warning looks.) Everything happened around these panels, but she could feel an electricity independent of the TARDIS. It was coming from them, charged by longing looks and wandering fingers. Something shimmering between them. Yaz had to conceal the shaking of her hands. She couldn’t believe the Doctor was keeping it so cool.

Graham seemed to clock early on, just as he was disposing of the deadly bubble wrap; Ryan was too busy playing around with his new phone. Just before Graham said his goodbyes for the both of them, Yaz heard a light slap. Against a shoulder, or maybe his own thigh. Was he making a statement? Getting Ryan’s attention? Getting hers? She had no idea. She was too focused on the Doctor and her wild gestures as she retold a story Yaz had no chance of following tonight. Yaz’s attention was on the stretch of her girlfriend’s smile.

Graham and Ryan left without hearing a response.

“You’re not listening, are you?” the Doctor said, her voice dropping a tone as soon as they were alone. They were never too far apart in the first place, but they moved closer now, closer still, and the Doctor’s arms returned to their favourite place, hanging off Yaz’s shoulders loosely. “Everything alright?”

Yaz nodded, her hands resting on the Doctor’s hips. She was sure the Doctor could hear how quick her heart was pounding – already! “Just got things on my mind.” She was ansty, but she could push past it. She cleared her throat and looked up at the Doctor, her eyes making an involuntary pit stop at her girlfriend’s lips. She even raised an eyebrow, and hoped she was doing this right.

The smile was slow, but as the Doctor’s lips pulled, it settled into a new expression entirely – a different kind of smile Yaz was just starting to get used to. The sparkle in the Doctor’s eyes told her their thoughts had synced.

“Let me just finish off here. Meet me in my bedroom in five.”

God, it was good. The Doctor was so good at this. Yaz felt on fire, powered by their proximity alone. Twisting and writhing together, exploring more and more of each other.

But it still wasn’t quite enough. She couldn’t shut her brain off. The more she tried, the louder it got.

And of course the Doctor noticed. Nothing on her torso except her suspenders, she stopped her deliberations on Yaz’s neck and focused her efforts on her human girlfriend with soothing rubs down Yaz’s thighs. “Yaz? Talk to me. Something’s up.”

Yaz’s legs were bracketed around the Doctor’s hips, so she took advantage of the warm body beneath her and sat, letting free a breathy laugh. Her hands on her girlfriend’s chest – still shaking.

The Doctor propped herself up on her elbows. Her hair was messed up, and her upper body was completely bare, the clothes lost in one of the many piles littering the Doctor’s bedroom floor. With such a sight, Yaz forgot she’d even been spoken to.

“Yaz?” the Doctor repeated, and everything came rushing back. All the worry.

“I haven’t done this before,” she admitted. She looked away before she could see the Doctor react. She didn’t want pity. “I’m not – it’s my first time. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Yaz found nothing but understanding. “That’s okay,” the Doctor sat up and hugged Yaz’s own bare midriff. “It’s okay if you’re scared, lovely, we’ve all been there.”

“Must’ve been a while ago for you, now.”

The Doctor shrugged. “In a different body, though. Things worked differently. I’ve got a lot to discover now. And you can help me!” The Doctor grinned up at Yaz before pressing a kiss to her abdomen. “If you want to, that is.”

Yaz nodded – then nodded again, more vigorously. “I really do. I’m not scared – not really, I promise. I’m just nervous.”

The Doctor brought her head down and leaned in for a long kiss. A deep inhale, then another kiss. “That’s fine, Yaz, honestly. I won’t make you do anything you’re not prepared for. Tonight’s about you,” was the Doctor’s response. “I want to make you feel good. Let’s just focus on that for now.”

Yaz already trusted the Doctor implicitly to take her word for it. Even if she hadn’t, the soft determination pooling in those big eyes would’ve melted any doubts.

She let the electricity of the night pour over her, and her hands stopped shaking.

Instead they were roaming everywhere as the Doctor worked to make her limbs looser and looser. Roaming down the Doctor’s chest, cupping and gripping when encouraged, twisting her fingers through the Doctor’s hair, leaving light scratches down her girlfriend’s back. They moved together so well, so seamlessly, like every movement was burning off Yaz’s nervousness from earlier. It was so relieving that the Doctor could take control like this. Not to mention, it was  _so_ fucking attractive – like Yaz couldn’t have been helplessly captured by those glimpses of fire burning in the Doctor’s veins. All those moments of glory when the Doctor razed the villain to the ground with her scorching wordplay. (And Yaz couldn’t lie that her bombastic speech to Slade and Maddox earlier had turned Yaz on just a bit.)  She couldn’t help but burst with awe and pride.

Yaz felt strange being the one underneath, not calling the shots, but tonight it made sense. She was letting go. After all, the Doctor  _definitely_  knew what she was doing. Hours and hours of making out beforehand meant she knew all of Yaz’s weak spots – all the places that made her melt – that patch of skin just underneath her right ear – the tightening of her grip on her thighs – the place where her collarbones met – so when the Doctor finally went where Yaz desperately  _needed_  her to go – they shared Yaz’s deep inhale, then a smile, and a laugh, and a kiss. The Doctor knew what she was doing. With the way the Doctor was making her feel, Yaz couldn’t think of a truer sentence.

Well, Yaz just couldn’t really think, full stop. She only vaguely registered the Doctor taking her girlfriend’s hand in her own as the pleasure built and built and built.

It was over soon enough. Exhausted from seeing stars – and not the real kind, not the ones outside the TARDIS doors – she needed a moment to catch a breath. Yaz’s heart was pounding still, her skin flushed, but she was content. She could still feel that shimmering in the air. “Thank you,” she breathed.

The Doctor had already laid down beside her, her hand caressing Yaz’s jaw. She was relaxed, too, expecting nothing else. “Still got it,” the Doctor grinned, catching Yaz off guard and making her laugh. The Doctor’s smile only widened at the sound, and the softness in her gaze deepened. “You should sleep. We can continue this another time.”

Yaz could hardly refuse. After all, they had all the time in the universe.


	4. how to come to the wrong conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team usually meets after getting into their pajamas for tea. The Doctor doesn't show up one night so Yaz goes to check on her. Walks into her bedroom and the Doc is frantically looking for something. Yaz offers to help. Details, "Small, long, pink, vibrates" and Doc can't remember what it's called. But she uses it before bed and after waking up. Yaz is beet red until the Doc goes "AHA FOUND IT." And pulls out her toothbrush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring: graham is too eager for his cuppa, granddad-and-grandson duo like their trashy alien soap operas, the doctor makes mess into art, and yaz nearly passes away into the next life.

Yaz, Ryan and Graham had learnt very quickly that just because the Doctor was a Time Lord, she wasn’t good at time- _keeping_.

It was very on-brand; Yaz could’ve guessed it upon their first meeting. The Doctor, especially then, had been all over the place and while she’d let all the post-regeneration energy fizz away, her haphazard and dynamic nature had remained. She was like the quaintly English sweets she could get from the corner shop at home, the flying saucers – alien and all. Whatever her appearance, it was what inside what mattered: sometimes it was too sharp, too much to bear, but often there was instead this fizzing, bubbling energy sweet to the taste. They’d been Yaz’s favourite when she was younger.

(Clearly, the sentiment had stayed.)

The Doctor was lovely, and impossible. Months of travelling together and still she was unpredictable. Yaz was always curious as to what would happen next, even in the little moments; such was life with the Doctor.

Not every second of travelling was full of do-or-die decisions, thank  _God_. They even had time to relax. Sometimes. Graham was teaching Ryan to cook on some nights; other nights, the Doctor was introducing them both to her own brand of engineering. Yaz was leafing her way through a series of journals she’d stumbled across in the library, documenting the life and history of the Frolada galaxy. More recently, they’d taken to having tea together before bed. There was a living room about three right turns away from the Doctor’s bedroom, with a bright purple sofa and a TV half the size of a cinema screen. Most nights, they nestled up together in their pyjamas, blowing air on their steaming mugs: sometimes they streamed a show one of them liked, but often they just chatted as a four, free to reminisce about anything and everything.

Tonight was a binge-watch night; Graham and Ryan had been getting into a TV soap from the planet Poloppian. (Fortunately, the TARDIS translator worked for binge-watches too.) Yaz wasn’t interested – it reminded her too much of Hollyoaks, minus the crab-like claws – so she usually found refuge in the hushed conversations she had with the Doctor during this time.

(They were intimate moments. The Doctor would snuggle up even further into Yaz and lean in closer so her voice didn’t have to travel so far when she talked. Yaz often caught herself wondering what if, what if–)

They’d been sat down for half an hour now – Yaz, Graham and Ryan, that was. They were already in their pyjamas and were snug under the duvet warming their laps.  (Yaz’s pyjamas had little planets on, which she’d found a little embarrassing the first time she wore them on the TARDIS – right up until the Doctor’s face broke out into this  _delighted_ smile and suddenly it was the best decision she’d ever made.) Graham was cradling his cup of tea like a child, his second of the night. Ryan had finally noticed the Doctor’s missing presence and paused the show with the remote.

“Why’s she taking so long?” he grumbled. “She’s missing the best part.”

“She’s forgotten herself, I bet,” Graham responded. “Probably tinkering.” His head swivelled to Yaz. “Can you fetch her?”

“Why me?” Not that Yaz was complaining, of course. In fact, she was already getting up to go.

“If she’s gonna listen to any of us, it’d be you,” Graham answered. As if it were the most natural thing in the universe. He wasn’t even watching her leave. He brought his mug to his lips, and immediately regretted his decision – much to the amusement of his grandson.

“I’ll restart it for when you come back,” Ryan added, still grinning at Graham’s misfortune.

Yaz snorted. “Don’t worry about it.”

Three right turns away – that’s how close the Doctor was. And all that time she hadn’t popped in. Yaz shook her head. So typical. But finding the door to the alien’s bedroom open and seeing the Doctor in her natural habitat, she soon forgot any misgivings. It was an entertaining sight; the Doctor in her natural habitat.

To say the Doctor’s room was a mess – that was an understatement. The Doctor’s piles of mess had their very own piles of mess. Some of them had been shaped into structures from the Doctor’s memory. (Was that Big Ben there? Was that Gallifrey?) Some were amalgamations of clothes, but often they were little projects the Doctor was halfway through finishing, or hadn’t got round to discarding. Every now and then there would be a mysterious artefact of the Doctor’s previous adventures, clues into a life Yaz was desperate to hear about. (Was that… a Vincent Van Gogh painting?)

And in amongst it all, rummaging around like a little mole, crouched the Doctor. She had her back turned to Yaz, but she wasn’t hidden away. She was in pyjamas already: her shirt and trousers were the same rich blue as her trousers, silk, with iridescent stars and whirlpool galaxies dotted all over, obscured by a burnt yellow dressing gown. And white fluffy slippers.

( _So_ cute.)

“Doctor?” Her tone was teasing as she leaned against the door, arms folded and smiling despite the Doctor’s chronic lateness. “Forgotten something?”

The Doctor stood up quickly – Yaz could almost hear an accompanying  _zing_ – and spun round to face her best friend. Her hair was a little wild. (Yaz loved it.) “Yaz! Lovely to see you. Sorry for being late, really sorry. I’ve just lost something, see, and I’m so—“

“Messy?” Yaz interjected.

The Doctor frowned, though it was clearly only for show. “Rude. No, I’m so distracted, getting ready to be with you, I’ve misplaced it…”

The Doctor’s words were already directed at herself more than Yaz. That was fine – helpful, actually, because that meant she wasn’t paying attention to how the police officer had got her thoughts stuck on ‘distracted, getting ready to be with you’. She was probably overthinking it, but the Doctor thankfully hadn’t witnessed her small gay panic. She was already off delving into another pile, still muttering to herself.

“Misplaced what?” Yaz’s voice was barely level.

“Ah, y’know,” the Doctor responded as she dived in again.

Yaz lost sight of her head.

“It’s small,” the voice piped up, just as loud.

“That could be many things.”

“Long,” the Doctor continued.

Yaz racked her brain for things she could want at this time. Her sonic? A razor? Hairbrush?

“Pink.”

That narrowed things down significantly. The Doctor didn’t have many pink things. Yaz’s cheeks were starting to warm again as a suggestion popped into her head.

“ _And_ it vibrates,” finished the Doctor, unwittingly putting the final nail in Yaz’s coffin. “Aw, come on, I haven’t hidden it, have I?”

Yaz nearly choked on air. She felt hot all over.

“Uh…”

“A- _ha!_  Success!” the alien zipped back onto her feet, wielding a—“Toothbrush! Can’t believe I lost it.” She paused, cocked her head just so. “You okay, Yaz?”

The images in Yaz’s head were such a contrast to what she saw before her: a tiny dork in pyjamas and  _fluffy_ slippers clutching her pink toothbrush like it was her new favourite toy. ( _Toy!_ Bad choice of words, Yaz, bad,  _bad!_ ) Yaz folded her arms even tighter and cleared her throat. Blinked a few times. Maybe that would help clear these unsolicited, not tea-and-TV appropriate, images away for now.

(She knew they were going to haunt her thoughts tonight. Oh, she was in for it.)

“I’m fine,” she replied. Used her police training and battened down her gay panic. “You finally ready to go now?”

“Yeah,” the Doctor grinned, leaving her pink toothbrush on her bedside table on top of another pile of clutter, hopping through the piles with an easy abandon. “What are they watching?”

“ _Long Lop Nights_.”

“Ew,” the Doctor’s face crumpled in disappointment. Finally, she reached her best friend. “Ah, well. Least I’ve got you to keep me company.” She held her hand out for Yaz to take, eyes sparkling with innocence and eagerness. “You ready?”

Yaz couldn’t help but smile. The Doctor really was going to be the death of her. She threaded her fingers through the outstretched hand. “Course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you imagine thirteen in silk pyjamas tho?? yaz in pjs with little planets on???? i'm gonna die thank


	5. hot stuff baby tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Team TARDIS ends up at a night club (maybe Studio 54 for historical points) and Thirteen/Yaz works up the nerve to drag Yaz/Thirteen to the dance floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring: graham goes overboard, ryan is Done with thasmin's heart eyes, and both yaz and the doctor are awkward and adorable.
> 
> also: ref points for [graham's, ryan's](https://www.thetrendspotter.net/70s-fashion-men/), and [yaz's](https://www.retrowaste.com/1970s/fashion-in-the-1970s/1970s-fashion-for-women-girls/) fashion [(and here’s the modern equivalent for yaz).](https://www.missguided.co.uk/orange-slinky-halter-cowl-neck-jumpsuit-10119978/)

“I can’t believe you’ve brought us to a disco, Doc,” Graham grins. “And this one! Never in my life, never in my  _life_ did I think I’d end up here. Now this is what I’m travelling for.” He chuckles in near-ecstatic glee.

Ryan blinks at him. “You alright, mate?”

“It’s Studio 54! Back in my day, lad, this was the ultimate disco,” his step-granddad immediately enthuses. He adjusts the larger-than-usual collar around his neck and pats it appreciatively. “It was so legendary we even heard about it back in Blighty. I loved disco. I wanted to go here so badly.”

“And now you are,” the Doctor adds enthusiastically, causing Yaz to beam up at her. Half in pride, half in love.

“And now I am!” Graham repeats. “God, if Grace could see me now.”

There’s an electric feeling in the air. Bass thumps out of the walls, carrying up to the streets of New York. A queue of keen partygoers stretches out, almost as far as the eye can see – if you  _can_  see, that is. Not only do their senses have to contend with the heaving, bustling crowd, but the lights of the street are blazing and the cars zoom down the road at breakneck speeds. They all smell of sweat already. The night hasn’t even begun.

The Doctor hasn’t changed her outfit; with something so eccentric, she can fit in anywhere. She’s anticipated the heat, though, and left her coat behind. Yaz selected a bright orange flared pantsuit, and chunky boots, but it’s as if she’s wearing something to a night out in the twenty-first century. Funny how fashions come back around. Aside from the white flared trousers, Ryan doesn’t look much different, either. He works the tight rainbow t-shirt very well.

Graham’s the real shocker here. He’s gone “full Studio 54”: a three piece suit. Waistcoat, flares and a jacket, all a deep blue, with a patterned shirt. Ryan advised him to leave the aviators in the TARDIS. He’s so gleeful, so confident, so totally at home in the disco scene, that the rarity of “Disco Granddad”, in Ryan’s semi-teasing words, isn’t even that jarring. He’s just having fun; it’s his birthday.

While they wait, the Doctor launches into a story about how she almost accidentally prevented the Battle of Waterloo from happening – the real one, with Napoleon – thus jeopardising ABBA’s legendary mark on the music industry. (“Tragic,” Ryan chimes in, monotonous, making Yaz giggle. The Doctor is offended at the both of them.) Then the queue finally lets up, and they’re in. Being Mick Jagger’s wife’s family, according to the psychic paper, can get you anywhere.

Graham is lost almost immediately, probably not wanting his style cramped by two young things and an alien – all of whom haven’t been immersed in this music all their life. The three of them stand around awkwardly, pressed to a wall, watching people either dance as friends in groups – or in clear couples. To pass the time, the Doctor points out various famous faces and shouts their names over the bass and the strings, but a lot of the time, their significance is lost on Yaz and Ryan.

“Graham would despair,” the Doctor sighs to Yaz, but with the dazzling smile she sends her immediately, it seems her disappointment has dissipated pretty quickly.

And Yaz can’t help but smile back, of course.

A lot.

The Doctor doesn’t seem to mind.

“O- _kay_ , I’m gonna get drinks,” Ryan sighs. “You two want anything?”

Only the sound of the heaving disco answers him.

“That’s a no,” he mutters to himself, and disappears into the chaotic crowd. “Hey, is that Michael Jackson?”

Someone knocks into Yaz, pushing her even closer into the Doctor. The man, already having spent hours here, is laden with sweat and it rubs off onto her shoulder. Yaz can’t help but grimace. Then the Doctor’s hands are on her waist to steady her, and Yaz switches to a panicked laugh.

“You’re hot,” Yaz tells the Doctor. She blanches. “Uh. I mean. You should be too hot in here with that top on underneath your shirt.” She gestures to the long sleeves currently wrapped around her waist.

The older woman shrugs, but lets go of Yaz to bunch up the sleeves of her white top at her biceps. Yaz definitely does not sneak a glance at the biceps. “I think I’ll survive. Long as I don’t exert myself too much, of course.” She pauses. “How’re you doing in that jumpsuit?”

The Doctor’s eyes do not stay on Yaz’s face and the police officer can feel every  _centimetre_  of their journey. “I’m boiling,” she admits. She’s overheating and it’s not only because of the teeming crowd of bodies all around them.

She gets a nod, and a little clearing of the throat, but that’s it. Nothing much they can do. “I really like your jumpsuit, by the way,” the Doctor adds as her eyes flit up to Yaz’s face again. Her head tilts just slightly. “I really like it. You look really…”

She can’t finish it. Her arms start flailing ever so slightly and she gets jumpy.

Yaz knows what this is: nervousness. Her heart starts pounding.

“D’you want to dance?” the Doctor blurts. In her haste, she makes  _sure_ it is absolutely heard over the music. “With me?”

With her? The Doctor immediately reddens – Yaz can see it even in here – but there’s no escaping the question, no escaping the intensity of the Doctor’s expression or the underlying meaning. They know the makeup of the room here.

Honestly, Yaz is glad the Doctor was the one who put her heart(s) on the line. She already embarrassed herself enough with stating the Doctor was hot. (Even if it  _is_ true.)

“I thought you didn’t want to exert yourself too much?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. At the sight of the Doctor’s face falling, Yaz smiles with as much grace as she can muster – bloody difficult given how much she’s swooning over the Doctor’s courage – and grips the Doctor’s elbow. “Come on. Let’s give Graham something to be proud of.”

Ryan returns half an hour later to their little secluded spot, buzzing from his martini and his conversation with yet another childhood hero of his. Yaz and the Doctor are nowhere to be seen. Eventually, he finds Graham and tries to ask whether he saw them. After the third attempt, “Disco Granddad” recalls he saw them dancing together earlier. They didn’t notice, but he saw them creep off an hour ago.

“They were hand in hand, lad! And – and the Doctor had a lipstick mark on her cheek!” Graham shouts, before cackling with delight. Then the music changes again, this time into ABBA. “Oh, I  _loved_ this one!”

Hand in hand, and a  _lipstick mark!_  Yeah, Ryan thinks, that sounds about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> donna summer you absolute legend. disco was the best music genre don't @ me
> 
> also if you don’t think i had the time of my life imagining bradley walsh in a whole 1970s three-piece suit, then you’re tragically mistaken. chibs please let graham over-dress in every decade please please please i just wanna see 80s graham with a popped collar and a mullet


	6. the night mover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinda stupid Thasmin prompt: Secret Superhero Yaz!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit less fluffy, this one. featuring: yaz breaks an alarm clock, kicks some ass, and gets encouraging words from the doctor.

Yaz considered herself a decent woman – feisty, fair and ready for the fun of life. She worked hard as a police officer for her community. She had a loving family. She had great friends within the Doctor, Ryan and Graham.

She was also a great big liar.

See, the powers had started at age 12. Already she’d known she was too old for the games they’d play in primary school; she was too old to pretend she was a superhero and believe so hard she could  _feel_ it in her bones. She had started at a new school doing important work, getting her grades, trying to make new friends. That make-believe fantasy of that incontrollable power – that  _power_ – shouldn’t have stayed.

It had.

First it had been incontrollable. A sleep-ridden protestation in the morning sent her alarm clock flying out into the street below - taking the window with it. Doors would open and close as she walked, without help, and she’d have to blame it on a sudden gust. The ability to move things with her mind was helpful yet  _so unhelpful_ , so out of place for a normal girl leading a normal life. What would her parents think? What would her little sister think? Would she be taken away?

It had been so distressing, she had no option but to lie, to explain her very existence away.

She grew, and so did her lies. She withdrew from others. She was a lonely child: a thankful one, a lucky one, yes, but lonely. There was no one to turn to about her solitary walk into the wilder parts of Sheffield, and the century-old tree she’d lifted into the air without even touching it. There was no one to confide in about her sleepless nights; in her room illuminated by starlight, she would spend  _hours_  working on hiding, hindering, preservation.

She could not stumble for one minute. She could not lose concentration.

She grew, and she got a job in the police force. She figured it was better this way, to do something substantial, dutiful; she’d be driven crazy by her isolation otherwise. She had a knack for justice – a gut instinct she could always rely on, and quick thinking skills she’d harnessed after years of training herself. It was easy. She was hiding. She was fine. She was fine.

 

It was when Yaz was off-duty that this changed, simply on her way to the corner shop. Sheffield at night wasn’t safe by any means – and she would know, she was a  _police officer_ – but a shout had alerted her to danger. Yaz’s feet had pulled her towards the source: then there were two more shouts, three. A disagreement, no doubt. When she’d rounded the corner she’d realised she knew these teenage troublemakers, but the three adults they had been cornered by were new.

This was no place for a teenager to be in.

So when the gunshot had sounded, she just thought.

“Fuck! My gun!”

It was in her hands now. Oh, God, it was in her  _hands_. She could barely breathe. What were they doing, waving guns in a car park? But they’d started to follow the path of the gun’s flight in the moonlight, and she was at risk of being seen. She quickly pulled her hood over her head and flung the weapon, far far from here. She could hear it clatter into a drain, out of sight.

The panic was rising and they were here, they were  _here_ , where had the kids gone? Had they scrambled to safety? But there was another gun, another shot, a shot at her—the car slammed into the man, the bullet taken up into the metal.

In the moonlight she must have looked like a ghost. Yet she was just a hooded girl, wielding a car like it was a weapon. One man lay on the ground, unconscious but not dead. The other two men decided the effort wasn’t worthwhile: they shot off like a rocket, all thought of confrontation left behind. They wouldn’t be back, she didn’t think.

The teenagers were still here; hiding behind a Toyota to her right. They didn’t know who she was, but they stared all the same at their saviour. This time, it wasn’t the moody resignation she’d so often seen line their faces in the overnight cells. Their mouths hung open in pure fear and relief.

She didn’t talk to them. She couldn’t talk to them. She just turned and walked away.

That strength she’d felt in her bones as a young kid was never a fantasy. From 12, she’d felt it revitalise her, unlock new potential in her mind and take her to unstoppable heights. At 18, she was Sheffield’s Night Mover. Vigilante, helper, and always, always silent.

She told her family she was taking on extra shifts at the station. Her boss was uncaring; he let her out on patrol and checked back as few times as he legally could. She didn’t mind; she loved her job, and she loved her new duty. Like her obligations when the sun was up, the Night Mover was never a thug and never coerced into a fight. Never again. After the subsequent investigation into the trashed car and the unconscious man, Yaz preferred brains over brawn to deal with the situation, whatever it entailed.

Sometimes there were things a roaming police officer just couldn’t manage. In no time at all, Sheffield found it could leave those problems to the Night Mover.

 

Circumstances change but life is brittle when duty calls. As soon as she was led to the Doctor, her gut told her something would have to give. Even though an alien from  _outer_   _space_  had declared Sheffield to be his hunting ground, the Doctor was a little distracted, a little too focused on Yaz. And Yaz, too, had felt a disturbance in her mental space: like something was trying to figure her out. Something… not human.

Still, a chance to travel with the Doctor was the chance to make friends. It was a chance to find something more important than her Yorkshire city. It was the chance to forget herself, to get away from the stresses of her life back at home. She was more than what Yaz the police officer had seen, and more than what the Night Mover had witnessed. She wanted to see more of the universe, and this blonde, bubbling alien could give her that.

And she was right: she  _did_ forget herself. She forgot for too long.

 

Because lying only worked for so long.

“Whoa, wait, are  _you_  the Night Mover?”

The dust was settling around a tank-sized rock had not been there a moment before. But thank God it was; the monster had kicked up an awful fuss about their existences and they were lucky, again, to be alive. His roars of fury were loud enough to echo across the cave system – but not loud enough for Yaz to pretend she hadn’t heard Ryan’s question.

“The what?” the Doctor jumped in, curious, despite already heading for the TARDIS.

It was, at least, allowing Yaz to avoid answering the question. She just kept her head down as she walked, wishing she was anywhere but here.

“Sheffield’s very own superhero,” Graham explained. “They’re known for going around Sheffield at night, sorting stuff out the police can’t. And they never speak a word.” Graham paused, a revelation spreading across his face. “You’d get caught by your superiors otherwise, eh?”

Yaz gave a meek nod.

“You saved my mate from getting mugged!” Ryan’s sentence was more of an explosion. “Seriously, he’s  _so_ grateful. Won’t hear a bad word about you. He kept the ring he proposed to his fiancé with ‘cause of you.”

And while it was reassuring to hear the good her deeds had done, the Doctor was silent – silent, in fact, all the way until the TARDIS doors closed behind them.

Then immediately the Doctor rounded on her and Yaz could only freeze.

“Telekinesis!” she burst. She was already in Yaz’s space, eyes searching for something she couldn’t find, hands almost desperate to cradle the inanimate girl in front of her. “I  _knew_ there was something happening with your head! Felt it from the first moment I met you, Yaz. A puzzle, always a puzzle. All  _I_ need is one touch and I could get inside your mind – but you’re clever, you’re tricky; without that touch you don’t let anyone in.” Then the Doctor calmed. “How long have you been the Night Mover for?”

“A year,” Yaz answered. With the Doctor gazing at her like that, she felt locked into place. Only ever able to stare right back into truth.

The Doctor’s gaze turned impossibly gentler. “And how long have you been hiding yourself for?” she asked softly.

 

Yaz didn’t want to leave the TARDIS.

Everything was different now. Graham, Ryan and the Doctor knew exactly who she was. This could be her last trip with the Doctor, ever.  The Time Lord was determined to keep them out of danger – and here Yaz had been all this time, dabbling in vigilantism!

But she had other responsibilities than travelling through time and space. Yaz didn’t just have her job. She had her cause: sorting out fair play across Sheffield.

She stepped out of the blue box into the bitter cold of a Yorkshire winter, bracing herself for her parting with the Doctor. Everything looked so grey and miserable here. With the Doctor, everything was new; brilliant; bold and beautiful. She didn’t want to say goodbye. All because she couldn’t keep the lie.

Instead, she turned round to find a hand in her face. Specifically, a hand holding a key.

The Doctor hopped out to join the police officer, but the hand stayed still. “This is for you. But you’ve got to promise me something, Yaz.”

She wished she could promise the Doctor anything. “Of course.”

“You keep safe.” The Doctor’s voice was so sure, and yet so close to breaking. “I can’t stop you doing what we do every time we run into danger, but I want you to come back to me. Us.” She pressed the key into Yaz’s hands.

The December wind was sweeping away the warmth the smooth metal had absorbed from the Doctor’s hand, but there was an underlying current of energy still swirling from within. Maybe the key, too, was alive. Yaz gripped it tightly and slid it into her jacket pocket.

“Don’t hesitate to reach out to me. That key is a part of the TARDIS; she’ll know where to go if you need her. And she’ll know if you’re in trouble,” the Doctor continued.

Yaz nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. Really, thank you.”

The Doctor nodded back, lips disappearing in her expression of determination. Then it broke, and they broke, and their arms were wrapped around each other.

“You don’t have to hide with us, okay?” the Doctor whispered into Yaz’s shoulder, and Yaz promptly broke all over again.

She felt that statement reverberate through the bones; felt it strengthen her like their fantasy games had done, all those years ago in primary school. And this was real, too. She felt the power swell inside her.

Yaz was done with being lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this alarm clock annoying _yeet_


	7. a terrible misunderstanding of the symbolism of pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor making pancakes for Yaz and all of the team mistaking it for a “morning after” *cough cough* situation and not being convinced otherwise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring: graham has No Clue What Is Going On Ever, yaz finds it impossible not to send heart-eyes to the doctor, and ryan just really wants some breakfast.

Ryan had it all sussed out.

He knew it. He knew it ever since the beginning. He’d known something was going on ever since the start.

They just fit together, didn’t they? That sense of adventure they’d all been lured in by, it was part of the Doctor, and it was alluring to Yaz in a way it wasn’t for Graham and Ryan – not in quite the same way, anyway. As for Yaz, she was the voice of common sense the Doctor needed sometimes: the gentle reminder, the sarcasm and the questions required to guide the alien onto the right path.

They had a connection that went deeper, all the time, and all Ryan and Graham could do was to stand back and watch it blossom before them. During one trip to an alien museum, where Yaz and the Doctor held hands the entire time, Ryan proposed to make a little fun from it.

“Bet they’re a couple by the end of the week,” he said to his step-granddad.

Hands in his pockets and his nose pressed up against the glass, Graham had been too busy studying a spatial-dimension manipulator from the planet Gret, in the year 29.58L.

“I still have no bleeding clue what that means,” he sighed to himself.

Ryan elbowed him. “Oi, Granddad.” Finally he got the older man to stand up properly, a little perturbed and a little curious – but a little proud, too. Just ‘cause Ryan called him his Granddad, honestly. “Look at ‘em.”

He pointed over to the Doctor and Yaz just as they were about to disappear from view. The Doctor was swinging their entwined hands slightly, and Yaz was belly-laughing at something the Time Lord had said. Then they turned the corner and they were gone, leaving Ryan and Graham to trail behind.

Both men started picking up the pace, neither of them eager to get left behind on an alien planet.

“Yeah, what about ‘em?” Graham wondered. “We know they’re crushing on each other.”

“Wanna make a bet on it?” Ryan grinned. His eyes were caught by various different artefacts – all looking very spacey, and  _very_ alien – but he was too busy imagining scenes in his head: money that would be all his.

“Those are our friends, lad!” Graham complained. “Betting on a relationship. Feels wrong.”

Ryan shrugged it off. “Bet you a tenner they’re a couple in a week.  _And_ you can have my  _Long Lop Nights_ boxset.”

But the older man was still silent.

“Okay, bet you twenty.”

“Deal.”

 

Two mornings later, Ryan just  _knew_. He woke up with the smell of money on his mind. He hopped out of his bed with a self-assured smile on his face. He could feel his success build up inside him as he wrangled his dressing gown around him.

The Doctor and Yaz had disappeared into the Doctor’s bedroom early last night and the two guys hadn’t seen them since. Oh, he was looking forward to his twenty pounds.

Did money have a smell? He didn’t care. He could smell it. Or maybe that was the food that were cooking in the kitchen as he shuffled down the corridor. That was definitely the Doctor cooking, then. Ryan would swear on his life that the woman made the best dishes in the universe.

His shuffle transformed into a stride. He was no longer rubbing his tired, tired eyes. There was purpose in his walk and it was breakfast. But then, outside the kitchen, he stopped.

The Doctor and Yaz were alone in the kitchen, giggling together about nothing in particular. Both were wearing slippers and dressing gowns: Yaz’s was white, the Doctor’s burnt yellow. Every now and then, the Doctor would turn away to pour the batter, or flip the pancake, or slip the cooked pancake onto two matching golden plates. Yaz was sat at the table, with towel on her head, freshly showered. She was resting her chin on her hand and watching the robed Time Lord with nothing less than adoration.

The Doctor turned around to face her best friend. Her head tilted just slightly. “You’re quiet.”

Yaz cleared her throat. “Just happy. And thankful. You really helped, Doctor, thank you.”

The Doctor waved it off. “It’s no problem. Anytime, and I mean that.” She sent Yaz a grin with a glint in her eye and turned around again. “D’you want blueberries on your pancakes, love?”

“I knew it!” Ryan exclaimed, finally stepping forward into the kitchen. He fought the urge to point a finger at them. “You two are a couple!”

The Doctor whipped around again, wielding the pan with a terrifying intensity. Yaz was so shocked, she jolted and punched herself in the jaw.

“Ryan! Whatever happened to knocking, eh?” the Doctor yelped, sighing loudly for good measure.

Yaz was frowning at him. “That hurt!”

“Oh, come on, guys. You’re in your dressing gowns!” Ryan responded. He pointed to the both of them in succession. “ _You_ just showered, and  _you’re_ making pancakes. You never make ‘em unless you were up all night.”

“Ryan, whatever you’re thinking, that’s  _not_  what happened,” the Doctor announced. She hastily put down the unfinished pancake on the hob and returned to watching Ryan with slight disapproval, folding her arms.

“I don’t care if you are!” he stressed. “I mean, I do, I’d be happy for ya, obviously, but it’s not a bad thing, I’m not pointing fingers.”

“You might as well have been,” Yaz retorted. She was blushing – or glowering, Ryan really wasn’t sure now.

“What’s this about?” Graham yawned, wandering into the standoff unawares. He was fully dressed but clearly not awake enough for the day. It took a while, but eventually he detected the silence and looked about, frowning. “Not having an argument over pancakes, are we? Sure we can share between the four of us.”

“Yes, we can, but that’s not the concern. Ryan, we – we’re not—”

“You owe me a twenty, Graham,” Ryan interrupted the Doctor. “I won. Look at ‘em! You can’t tell me this ain’t a ‘morning after’ breakfast.”

“Ryan!” Yaz scolded her friend.

Only the Doctor was left in confusion. “What’s a ‘morning after’ situation?”

“I’ll explain later, Doctor,” Yaz hurried. She turned her attention to Ryan again. It wouldn’t have been hard to imagine steam coming out of her ears. “You  _both_ bet on us?”

Okay, this wasn’t going like he thought it was going to. The sweet smell of success was fading further and further away.

“On you two being a couple, yeah. Said you would be by the end of the week,” Graham admitted. “In my defence, Ryan said he’d owe me twenty and lend me his  _Long Lop Nights_ DVDs.” He paused. “Wait, so you two  _aren’t_ together?”

“No,” the Doctor and Yaz said in unison.

But neither sounded particularly confident about that.

The Doctor’s eyes dipped to Yaz’s lips. Yaz’s eyes trailed the contours of the Doctor’s form, before meeting the Doctor’s gaze again.

“Feel like I’m intruding, not gonna lie,” Ryan muttered to Graham.

“Me too,” Graham responded – only with much less subtlety.

The two women were still gazing at each other.

“D’you two mind leaving so we can have a private conversation, please?” the Doctor’s tone was so commanding, Ryan was reminded of some of their tense standoffs with the monsters they’d encountered on their travels.

And even if it weren’t for the Doctor, Ryan didn’t want to risk facing Yaz’s wrath anyway.

So they didn’t need to be told twice. With a shrug and a quick exit, the two men left the Doctor and Yaz to sort out the status of their relationship to each other. Everyone knew involved knew exactly where it was going, though. Graham was already patting down his pockets to find his wallet.

A thought struck Ryan. It left him distraught.

“Mate, are they even gonna let us have pancakes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me vs not craving the food i've written every single time i respond to a prompt


	8. doing what any mum would do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thasmin prompt: Thirteen and the doctor finally give up to their feelings for one another after having gone on an adventure with the team and Najia to prove that the Doctor is not a bad influence on Yaz and Najia and the team walk in on the doc and Yaz making out for the first time after having gone to a romantic ball/dance and leaving the others there for a moment. More fluff than smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love najia khan with my whole heart. featuring: nosy mum najia, the doctor is extra sneaky, ryan really loves chandeliers and yaz is Perpetually Embarrassed (what a mood)

Yaz had always been a source of great pride for Najia. Of course she was; she was a golden child, smart and kind and responsible in all the ways her classmates hadn’t been. Every day, Yaz had come home with another reason to make her parents smile. Even when things had been bad –  _awful_ , really, that little girl Izzy had been a piece of work, and that Taylor lad had given her no end of grief – she’d stuck her head down, worked hard, and progressed again and again out of sheer will. Not to mention, she was the perfect example for Sonya to follow, even if Sonya refused to acknowledge that most of the time.

Najia had no reason to worry about Yaz. Really.

Fine, that was a little bit of a lie.

She had plenty to worry about, but at least it wasn’t about a lacking personality. Yaz’s job put her on the frontline, and would put her in even more danger the more she climbed up the career ladder. She had friends, but Yaz’s parents didn’t hear about them much. She was so dedicated, sometimes Najia had to remind her own daughter to embrace her youth. (Other times, she embraced it  _too_ well in the form of tetchy independence!)

Oh, and there was this new thing, too. This… travelling they did, with the Doctor. Alien planets and trips back into history and hurtling far into the future. All these possibilities! All the danger! Yaz was capable, adaptable – it was a strength both her daughters shared, Najia was pleased to report – but still. She was a mother. She was bound to worry about her child.

“The Doctor tries her hardest to make sure we’re safe, you know,” Yaz stressed. They were having a hushed conversation in the kitchen while the Doctor was discussing sofa shops with Hakim. Mother and daughter were mirrors of each other: a plain white mug of tea in their hands, cradling them gently while they stared down the subject. “She can’t promise anything but she’s got our wellbeing on her mind, always.” Her hair was braided; today, she couldn’t hide her smile behind her tangle of black locks. “She’s done some amazing things.”

Yaz turned her head away from her mum to watch the alien in question. The Doctor and Najia’s husband were in the lounge area of the room, seemingly deep in conversation, her lightly eccentric coat parted as she clamped her hands around her hips. Apparently she was taking the concept of buying a purple sofa very seriously. Hakim was only too happy to oblige. (That man was too soft for his own good.)

But rather than concentrating, like Najia had supposed, the Doctor’s eyes found themselves meeting Yaz’s almost immediately. Her smile to Yaz was small, but it was full of a gentle warmth, a gentle strength.

Yaz’s smile widened in response.

Najia felt as if she was intruding. She let them have this singular moment, busying herself with placing her mug on the kitchen countertop.

“You’re smitten,” she noted, when Yaz’s and the Doctor’s gazes returned to their respective conversation partners.

“Mum!” Yaz complained. “Not this again!”

“Yes this again!” Najia retorted, before decreasing the volume of her voice. “Neither of you are particularly subtle, you know. Especially you, Yaz, you’re just like your dad.”

“Mum, you really need to stop getting involved,” Yaz frowned. Her arms were now folded, her mug behind her. “We’re just friends.”

Really, there was nothing worse to Yaz than her mother merely trying to get a gauge on how her daughter’s love life was faring. Never mind the fact that Najia wanted to see her daughter happy.

“I’m only trying to look out for you!” Najia reasoned. “You two are gazing at each other and right now, I don’t know how to react to that.” Yaz tensed up even more, so Najia rushed to clarify. “I don’t mean because the – the Doctor’s a  _she_ or anything – like I said, I’m good with that now – it’s not a problem.” She was relieved to see her daughter’s shoulders relax an inch. “Look, as far as I know, she’s a human-looking alien who travels in space and time. She takes you far, far away from home and she treats danger and wonder  _equally_. Who knows how old she is! Who even knows if she’s right for you?”

“I’m capable of looking after myself, Mum,” Yaz argued. But her fire had been dampened for now. “I know what I’m doing.”

But Najia was still worrying.

“Or is that the Doctor’s influence on you?” she questioned. For the first time in her life, Najia was deeply worried that her daughter was ignoring her head to follow her heart, all too blind to see the consequences.

  

“Welcome, Yaz’s mum, to your first alien planet!” the Doctor crowed in delight as she hopped out of the double doors, the rest of the entourage not far behind.

“Please just call me Najia.” She was suffering from taking in too much information. It was actually comforting to latch onto something familiar: in this case, the Doctor’s slightly frustrating inability to call Najia by her first name.

For goodness sake, she’d just travelled through space to an alien planet, in a box that should have not fit the five of them but instead was  _mind-boggingly_ huge. She’d been told about it by Yaz, of course, but it was nothing like experiencing it first-hand. So excuse her if she was feeling a bit overwhelmed!

In fact, she was far too busy blinking herself into calmness to register the Doctor’s absent-minded thumbs up sent her way.

Closing the door behind them, Yaz sidled up to Najia. “You okay, Mum?” she asked quietly.

It took a second, but Najia nodded and cleared her throat. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“The year is 37690,” the Doctor continued, already barrelling down the path towards a city of some kind. The others followed automatically; Najia thought it best to copy. “And the planet is Svivsta ta Lahclen, very roughly translated to Birthplace of the Shining Souls!”

“Finally,” Graham joked to his grandson, “a place with a friendly name this time.”

With a quick glance at Najia’s slightly paler face, Ryan elbowed the older man. “Not now, mate.”

The Doctor turned on her heels and started walking backwards. “Legend has it that the Luminescent originated from here, before they left to become the immortalised Saviours of the Stormlands. They haven’t been seen for millennia, and the evidence supporting the claim that this was their birthplace is scant at best, but the Stormlands Council made the planet a tourist destination anyway.” She grinned. “So we’re here to celebrate!  _Ooh_ , and there’s the 890th annual Losstat Ballroom Celebrations, which all the who’s who of the Six Stormlands are spotted at. They also have a dinner menu with ingredients found nowhere else in the universe! The sandwiches are delightful so we will  _definitely_ be attending that tonight, by the way.”

Najia turned to her daughter. “Is this what you do all the time?”

Yaz nodded. “Mostly. Never been here though, and we don’t usually go ballroom dancing. Ready to explore?”

“I think I have to be; the Doctor’s already run off,” Najia motioned to the fast-disappearing figure far ahead of them.

“Oh, Doctor,” Yaz sighed, but it was far too fond to be considered genuine frustration.

Friends, Najia thought. That was about as likely as Hakim making an edible pakora.

 

“I know why you invited yourself on-board,” Najia heard behind her all of a sudden, and Najia did her best to contain the little yelp that escaped her lips.

Mind you, with all this noise of busy sellers and conferring market-goers, this wasn’t surprising.

“Doctor!” she scolded the alien, whipping around to find the woman in question watching her intensely.

She’d just appeared out of nowhere, interrupting Najia’s scrutiny of a very lovely looking necklace a lavender-skinned lady had presented to her. Really, these bustling markets were nothing like anything she’d ever seen – not like Sheffield’s, not like Birmingham’s, and not even like Leicester’s. This marketplace covered a  _quarter_  of the planet! She loved a good market; she’d happily stay here for days.

That was, if aliens didn’t interrupt her browsing.

In almost every other instance, the Doctor was extremely enthusiastic around her. Hugs were freely given and barely earned. To see the Doctor become so removed, then, so distant from Najia’s expectations, was a little unnerving.

“That’s a fertility amulet,” the blonde woman informed her. “Increases chances of a successful pregnancy by 49.35%.”

Najia swiftly returned the necklace to the kind lavender-skinned seller, who looked a little crestfallen. Two fiery daughters were plenty, thank you.

She turned back to the Doctor. “I’m here to see what my daughter is getting up to. After the spider problem, I’ve been a little worried,” she explained.

The Doctor nodded. “And this has nothing to do with how Yaz feels about me?”

She was jolted by a couple strolling past, and stepped forward to escape the flowing line of alien tourists. Unfortunately that meant she was even closer to Najia, and she was just watching Yaz’s mum now.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Najia bluffed.

“Najia, you’re lovely, you really are, but you’re a terrible liar,” the Doctor responded. “I get you’re worried about your daughter travelling with me. But she’s here by choice. All three of them are, actually. Yaz’s actions are entirely her own – she’s free to leave the TARDIS any time she wants but she’s here right now because she understands the consequences. Your daughter is so smart. I would never go as low as to deny her that.”

“You can’t promise her safety,” Najia stated.

“No, and she knows that,” the Doctor confirmed, just as firm.

“And you can’t promise you won’t break her heart.”

That made the Doctor still.

And sigh.

“She knows the consequences,” she eventually repeated. “And so do I, all too well. But if I can promise you one thing, Najia, out of everything in the universe, it’s that I would  _never_ willingly break her heart. Your daughter has a shining soul.”

That was what Najia had been waiting to hear.  _Finally_. The tension of the conversation lifted off as if it was smoke, and Najia’s exhale ended in a beam.

“I know,” she responded, and she did, because she was proud of it. She was very, very proud of her daughter.

Relief seemed to clear the consternation in the Doctor’s eyes. Instead of a grim line, the alien’s mouth was a ponderous smile. “The universe can try all it wants, but I can assure you, it was never going to be ready for Yasmin Khan.” She paused. “And truthfully, neither was I.”

And Najia knew that too.

“Right! Time to get ready for this evening’s ballroom dance, I think!” the alien grinned, and for a second Najia forgot she’d ever been intimidated by this ball of enthusiasm at all.

They had been lucky to have the TARDIS, as the dresses in Svista’s shopping centres were far too expensive for Najia to afford. What a relief the big blue box had had a wardrobe room deep in its… headache-inducing depths. Najia had put on a gorgeous dress, purple silk infused with a traditional Pakistani patterning, and immediately wished she never had to take it off.

They’d all dressed well tonight. Clearly, it had given them all the confidence to stroll into the ballroom party this evening – and not only observe, but  _enjoy_ the evening. This was far classier – and far weirder – than any work do Najia had ever been to, but here she was, clinking drinks with the First Mayor of Fire Storm City and joking with her frankly hilarious wife about marriage.

Not to mention, the drinks were free. She’d sampled every type of mocktail (or whatever this evening’s equivalent were called, anyway) and they were exquisite, every single one. She was half-tempted to ask around for the recipe. Perhaps she could get Yaz to stockpile the ingredients for her during her travels.

Speaking of her daughter, Najia couldn’t find her anywhere. Hadn’t since early that night, actually. After their customary appreciation of each other’s outfits - Yaz had opted for a deep blue dress, while the Doctor had slipped into a lavender-coloured suit and red tie - she’d been so engrossed in her conversation with Graham to notice that the Doctor and Yaz had simply disappeared. After a while, Graham had gone off to find Ryan, but Najia had been content to continue listening to Professor Pralamji’s anecdote about the misinterpretation of the Lightning Scrolls.

Najia imparted one final joke with the First Mayor’s wife and excused herself from the conversation. A waiter passed by with a slightly glowing purple plate, upon which Najia deposited her glass. Just as she weaved through the crowds of smartly dressed Stormlands celebrities, a hand on her shoulder grabbed her attention.

“Yaz’s mum!” Ryan almost shouted. “Where you going?” The drink in his hand was almost empty, and smelled of something strong. He was clutching it close to his chest, maybe out of fear of spilling it everywhere, and Najia was immediately concerned for the state of his nice burgundy-coloured suit.

Najia’s motherly instinct kicked in; she gently prised the drink from his hands and let him lean on her. He was a big, strapping lad, but she managed just fine. “I’m trying to find Yaz. Where’s your granddad?”

“Trying to find the Doctor. He’s over there, look. Graham! Graham!”

Ryan was quickly regaining his sobriety, and had stood up on his own two feet by the time Graham made his way over to his grandson. He, too, was donning a suit, though it was a more traditional black.

He interrupted Ryan’s excited chatter about the huge chandeliers. “Hiya, Najia. D’you think the Doc will be with Yaz?”

“Obviously,” Ryan snorted. “Bet they’ve escaped to someplace quiet. They’re always doing that nowadays.”

“Are they?” Najia enquired, with a raised eyebrow.

Ryan instantly became sheepish. “Uh…”

Graham shook his head as he led the two of them out of the main ballroom.

The Tsev mansion was enormous. Najia had long forgotten the way they’d come when they’d first arrived. But wandering with no end destination was now second nature to the two men accompanying her, and it relaxed her. A light piece of music, flowing and beautiful, was playing over speakers Najia couldn’t spot. The murmur of the celebrating crowds had died away long ago, and the music was barely audible too. That certainly helped.

They spent their exploration gazing in wonder at the interior design: Ryan’s beloved chandeliers, the golden-framed moving artworks of the natural elements native to the Stormlands, the striped wallpaper that seemed to glow and fade intermittently. Beneath her heels was a navy blue carpet, rich and soft even after repeated trampling. Everything about this place screamed eloquence. Najia was loving every moment of it.

“Shh.” Graham suddenly stopped, pointing to the right turn at the end of the corridor. Ryan stumbled into Graham, who steeled himself against the impact. “D’you hear that?”

As a three, they inched closer and closer to the corner, straining their ears to pick up the words all three were starting to hear.

It sounded like…

“… _mean_ to overhear what you were saying to my mum, I was just trying to find you.”

“No, I know. I wouldn’t assume otherwise.”

“You meant it, though? Every word?”

“Every word.”

There was a short pause, or an inhalation of breath. Najia couldn’t quite hear.

“’Cause now you know… I don’t wanna waste this chance.”

“Such a go-getter. One of the many reasons why I like you.”

“You like me?” The tone was teasing now.

“Of course! You’re amazing, you know. You speak my language. And, like I said, you’re smart, you’re so  _smart_ , and I like how I can—”

The voice got cut off extremely suddenly. Graham turned to look, concerned, at Ryan, just as Najia’s heart leapt up into her chest. This was it, this was the twist that Najia had been waiting for. Yaz wasn’t safe, wasn’t safe travelling with the Doctor, and now they’d both been attacked, both been taken and Najia had just listened to it happen.

There was a sound of kerfuffle, of someone being knocked against a wall, and Najia sprang into action. If there was an aggressive alien attacking her daughter and her friend, she was going to—

Oh.

Graham and Ryan followed her round the corner to find Najia standing in stunned silence at the sight before her. The Doctor and Yaz were halfway down the next corner, unharmed but not unruffled. They were happily unaware of their unwitting audience, happily locking lips and cradling each other in what Najia presumed was their very first kiss.

More like their very first make out. She was intruding on her daughter’s very first make out. Oh, dear, oh, no, this was too much.

“Have to say, that was not what I was expecting,” Graham commented.

It was loud enough for the two lovers to finally take notice of their witnesses, and they broke off, aghast.

“Mum!” Yaz half-shouted, half-groaned, shielded by the Doctor’s embrace.

“Hey, Yaz’s mum!” the Doctor smiled. She had the textbook definition of a frazzled expression on her face. “Sorry to catch you like this, I am definitely  _not_ accosting your daughter. This is a mutual accosting, if anything.”

Najia was a little bit frozen, if she was honest.

“C-carry on,” Najia waved her hand at them, her voice straddling the gap between breezy and shell-shocked. Wide-eyed and unable to comprehend much else, she turned and swiftly walked away.

Graham and Ryan moved to follow, but as they did, Ryan shouted a quick, “Congrats, guys!” at the couple.

“Thanks, now  _leave!_ _”_ was Yaz’s only response, and it made Najia laugh, despite the situation at hand.

She was terribly embarrassed for Yaz, and for the Doctor. She was terribly relieved, too, to find out that neither of these women were being attacked by some terrible monster.

The one thing she was not, however, was worried.

They both had it under control. She was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let thirteen wear more suits 2020, i'm just a bi with simple needs


	9. christmas angels don't have to be from heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mistletoemistletoemistletoemistletoE but in all seriousness............... what about christmas gift exchange (THEN mistletoe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did it!!! before christmas ends!!!! yes!!!! this was a fab prompt, thanks pal. featuring: yaz and the doctor are not subtle at all, ryan snores, and graham ends up being matchmaker. also, lots of feels.
> 
> also [here's the translator](https://adrian17.github.io/Gallifreyan/) i used for this fic, if you want a visualisation.

What do you get for the woman who wants for nothing? **  
**

This is Graham’s problem, currently. By finding the Doctor, he lost Grace but gained a family – and he loves travelling with them, it’s great, it’s fun, but it means he has to buy more presents for people he doesn’t know as well. Grace was so much easier to buy for. Not to mention she would’ve known exactly what to buy, and where.

(And. Well. That’s a reflection for another time.)

The others are easy to find gifts for. Graham bought Ryan’s and Yaz’s presents back in  _November_. (Or was it forward into November?) But the Doctor… Doc is proving the most difficult one. Again.

Seriously, what do you get a 2000 year old alien? Another time-travelling box?

Christ alive, humans are so much easier to buy for.

He confides in the two youngest of the team about his gift-giving woes. He doesn’t have to be secretive – the Doctor’s off “quarking a micropoint bi-axial rotor” that had “gone a bit wobbly”, whatever the bleeding hell that means. It’s just the three of them around the console, the TARDIS’ gentle thrumming to offer sympathies at their brain-wracking.

But neither of them are any good.

It’s alright for some. Yaz has got the Doctor a present, already. Of course she found something. More often than not those two are joined at the hip, and Graham’s long suspected that something between them needs to be addressed.

And Christmas is tomorrow. (Tomorrow being no more than a construct at this point. Graham can’t remember the last time he saw the Earth at night. Oh, blimey, that’s a lot to think about.)

“Even you, Yaz?” he sighs, after a third round of hypothesising fizzles away into nothing. “ _You’ve_ got her something. Surely you have ideas, still?!”

Yaz shakes her head. “Only ‘cause the Doctor asked me to get it for her. She doesn’t have money and she gets too distracted if she goes into Earth shops. I’m sorry, Graham, you’ll have to ask her.”

In all honesty, he’s starting to feel a little bit betrayed by his luck.

Doc chooses this time to wander into the console room, heavy duty welding glasses over her eyes and a nasty pair of pliers in her hands.

“Yaz! I think I left the electromagnetic wave shifter pump by you, can you pass it over?”

Sure enough, there’s some sort of mechanical invention close to the police officer, hanging by a hook on the console. Yaz is immediately on the case - she grabs it from its resting place and zips over to the Doctor as if she was magnetised to the Time Lord. The Doctor watches her the entire time, her mouth turned up just slightly in expectation.

“They’re so not subtle,” Ryan sighs, a playful smile on his face. The noise diverts his attention for a second, but Graham turns his head back again and finds his grandson isn’t wrong at all.

Yaz gently pulls the welding glasses up onto the Doc’s forehead, sharing a quiet conversation and a giggle. Something deeply joyful has blossomed on the blonde woman’s face, wondrous and overwhelming. Her smile grows exponentially when Yaz gives her a kiss on the cheek, placing the pump into the Doctor’s free hand.

It’s a perfect image of the two of them, Graham thinks. But then he stops himself. No, it’s  _almost_ perfect. ‘Course, it’s Christmas; it’s a moment that deserves falling snow and mistletoe! Nothing less for the two women that deserve it most.

And, ooh, hey, that’s a good idea. That’s a good one an’ all.

Doc moves to disappear not long after - but not before watching Yasmin hop back over to Graham and Ryan. She always watches them go, Graham’s noticed, like she’s thankful for every second she’s able to see her. God knows she’s loved and lost more than anyone here, hundreds of times over if not more.

She does it for Graham and Ryan, she’s always watching out for them, but there’s a wistful edge to her loving gaze when she looks at Yaz.

Seems the woman  _does_ want for something after all. Luckily, Graham’s got just the idea for her.

He catches sight of her fluttering coattails. “Hey, Doc, can we make a quick stop at a Tesco?”

Ryan looks like he’s just been struck like lightning. “Wait, wait, make that IKEA!”

 

Christmas isn’t feeling like it should.

He can’t help but feel out of sorts today. Like he’s been dropped into an alternate universe, but instead of that Solitary thing trying to tempt them to stay or whatever that… thing was called, he’s just been left without Grace.

He doesn’t know if that’s worse. He’s picturing it all, when everything was right, as he moves through Christmas morning. He should be in the kitchen, he thinks, with her, as they cook a turkey for the two of them. Their Christmas dinner is mournful and it’s too quiet without her cracking jokes. They’ve got Michael Bublé playing but he should be hearing her singing; he should be hearing her soul jumping out every time she opens her mouth to croon along.

She’s walking past in the corner of her eye but he’s expecting her to be sat down in the living room every time he enters and she’s  _not_.

This is the worst he’s been in a while, he knows. Grief’s a monster he wishes he wasn’t personally acquainted with, and it really bites the most when you should be celebrating with family.

Christmas is lonely without her. Life is  _lonely_ without Grace.

Despite all that, despite the heaviness crushing his chest and the smile he can see never quite reaching Ryan’s eyes, he’s still glad he’s here. He’s glad he’s continuing with Christmas even if part of him just wants to go to bed and do away with the whole bleeding holiday.

Because Doc and Yaz have joined them for the afternoon, and it means the world to both of the men.

Neither of the girls are tiptoeing around the subject, but they’re not making it their priority either. They’re just existing alongside their friends; pulling crackers; asking questions and finding out about each other’s traditions. What do Ryan and Graham usually do at Christmas? What was the best Christmas present they ever got each other? What was Grace’s favourite thing to do? He answers best he can, trying his hardest to make light of it all.

And it works. Conversation quickly dissolves into Yaz and Ryan having a food fight with the Quality Street sweets so the Doctor, lying horizontally on the lounge chair with her legs dangling over the side, launches into telling Graham about the time she almost got Oliver Cromwell to reinstate Christmas during his rule. It’s about as close to ‘tradition’ as Doc gets - keeping in with the rest of the year. Adventuring and trying to help however she can.

But now it’s his turn to help the Doctor, this Christmas, and he’s a little anxious about it.

He and Ryan have already opened their presents to each other. The scarf Ryan got him is pretty decent quality, he’s surprised - and Ryan’s already buzzing about his Red Red Exemption 2 game. If that’s what it’s called. But with the Doctor and Yaz here, the gift exchange can continue. When Doc finally finishes her story, he beckons everyone together and collects the remaining gifts from under the tinsel-drowned tree.

“Ooh! The gifts! I forgot about the gifts!” the Doctor grins, jumping up in her seat giddily.

Graham just hopes his gift can live up to her excitement.

For sake of the presents’ safety, Yaz has been the one to transport her and the Doc’s presents in her bag; after she adds to the pile, they all dive in. There’s no organisation, no rhyme, no reason. It’s every person for themselves. Ryan and the Doctor tear into the carefully wrapped gifts with gleeful abandon. Graham and Yaz share a look and laugh.

Ryan sighs in relief when he unwraps the Apple Airpods Yaz got him - his broke the day earlier. Graham is touched, frankly, by Yaz’s frog doorstop, another bit of Grace he can keep for himself. Yaz is already leafing through the baking recipe book Graham got her, but her eyes keep flickering over to the Cards Against Humanity set she received from Ryan. Meanwhile, the Doctor is delighted by Ryan’s toothbrush holder (Yaz seems to have an uncomfortable memory springing to the surface; Graham thinks it best not to ask). She’s holding the ABBA Gold CD from Yaz close to her chest, too. Poor TARDIS, Graham thinks, forced to play that again and again.

She hands out her presents to the rest of the team herself. They’re all small, and, as they unwrap them at the same time, the same idea. A pendant - “lovingly crafted from Sheffield steel,” the Doctor grins - with a Gallifreyan word stamped in.

“What’ve I got?” Ryan wonders, his mouth full of a toffee fudge stick as he squints at the foreign circles. It’s made up of little circles and semi-circles, a satisfying little pattern.

“Trailblazer,” Doc answers, and her smile is an answer to Ryan’s proud little beam. “You’re amazing, Ryan! And we wouldn’t even be a fam without you.”

Graham’s Gallifreyan word is more simple, like a moon and a sunbeam on opposite sides of the circle. “And me?” He takes his turn.

“Reason.” It’s pointed - a reminder, Graham realises, of how he close he was to straying from his de facto role in that heart-stopping face-off on Ranskoor av Kolos. And in that way he’s even more grateful for it. “You’ve been the voice of it more times than I can count. Sometimes we need grounding.”

Yaz takes in every detail of the meticulously carved metal of her necklace. Hers is like a sun on its side, a great cone of light emanating across the middle.

“Let me guess, mine says ‘stubborn’,” she quips, and they all laugh.

“Ey, that should be Graham’s,” Ryan jokes, and Graham nudges his knee lightly.

The Doctor only speaks after the laughter has died down. “It says ‘rapture’,” she explains, and her eyes can’t leave Yaz’s. “It’s great how much you love every moment.”

Ryan sends a pointed look at his granddad, a single eyebrow not-so-unsubtly raised. Graham can’t suppress his chuckle.

There’s one present left to open, one terribly wrapped little present. As soon as the Doctor alights on it, the nervousness jumps back into his body and his chuckle subsides.

It’s the last present. That’s even worse. The wrapping is off in a second. The Doctor holds aloft a little green plant, tongue out as she peers at it. Then sniffs.

“Yep, definitely real mistletoe!” she exclaims. “Awesome. Thanks, Graham, I actually really wanted one of these!”

She’s smiling, and every word is genuine, but it’s moments like these when he’s reminded just how much more intelligent and  _older_ she is than all of them, by far. In a moment she’s taken stock of every thought that could have been going through his head to make him buy it. She’s sussed him out in a second, and he knows it.

But the contemplative look on her face tells him he pulled it off. Not to mention, Yaz is staring at it, too, as if it wasn’t bleedin’ obvious why the Doctor would want mistletoe.

“You said you didn’t have these lying around in your TARDIS, you know,” he whittles on. She never said that. Improvisation was never his strong suit. He clears his throat. “It’s Christmas tradition, you see.”

“I really love it, Graham, thank you,” she smiles sweetly.

 

It’s later, much later, when it finally happens. Ryan has fallen asleep under the blanket to the sound of Call the Midwife playing on the TV. Graham’s too engrossed to fall asleep, full of Christmas pudding as he is, but there’s a birth happening and he’d rather not watch that, thanks.

And he’s thirsty. Yaz offered to fetch drinks a couple of minutes later, and the Doctor disappeared not long after. He’d go to investigate but he’s comfy and he doesn’t want to wake Ryan.

In the end, he doesn’t have to get up at all. Haloed by the kitchen light, the Doctor and Yaz stand underneath the mistletoe fixed to the door frame. There are two full glasses of water at Yaz’s feet, and another in Doc’s hand. But they’re forgotten now. The two women only have eyes for each other, and they share a quiet laugh before leaning in for the kiss they’ve both been wanting for a while now.

Merry Christmas, girls, Graham thinks. Took you long enough.

He leaves them to it and turns his head back to grandson. It’s a nice moment to just pause, to reflect on what he still has. He watches Ryan as his snores start to increase in volume, and smiles to himself.

He has a family, still. He doesn’t have Grace anymore, but he’s part of a family that love each other to bits.

It’ll do for him. It’ll do just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheeky reference to my own previous chapter heheh
> 
> merry christmas, happy hanukkah, and happy holidays to you all! i hope your day has been filled with love and joy (and if not, i’m more than happy to shower you in it myself)! <3


	10. highly irresponsible baking practices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thasmin prompt which I’d love to see (but I can’t write for the life of me): 13 trying to bake at some ungodly hour in the morning inside the tardis and yaz coming in to see several batches of burned cookies, something that might possibly be alive and the doctor covered in flour?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring: Yaz On The Case™, the TARDIS being far too used to things going tits up, and the doctor being 100% unrepentant which could not be more on-brand

The first sign that something might be wrong came quietly.

It was sinister. It arrested her sense of calm. It hovered over her bed while she slept and tormented her, tickled her skin. It was only when it teased her nostrils did she wake up and start to suspect the worst.

Nothing made her heart pound like that - nothing good, anyway. The feeling that the situation was unavoidable, and insurmountable. The feeling that the big bad had at last arrived, and you could only stand there, stand there and watch as everything crumbled.

But Yasmin Khan was not one for succumbing to pessimism. Being woken up at an awful time in the morning by the smell of burning was never a good sign, and certainly not on a sentient ship travelling across the stars. But she didn’t dare to think of the situation as unsalvageable. To do so would be to betray everything she was. No, Yasmin Khan was not giving up.

Her room was large - larger, in fact, than her bedroom at home. It took longer than she would’ve liked for her to find her phone, for her to grasp onto her dressing gown hooked onto the back of her door. But she wasted no more time than necessary shuffling about hopelessly in the dark. She had a mission.

In its own way, putting on the robe felt like she was back in her uniform. She was not merely prepared: she was ready to fight. If not to fight, then to warn. No one was going to perish on her watch.

Robed, slippered, and equipped with the torchlight on her phone, she nudged open her bedroom door and prowled down the corridor. The smell of burning was more intense here. Immediately she deduced that her destination was the kitchen, to the right of her own room. To the left, she could hear muffled voices. Deep, but panicked. Ryan and Graham, she thought. They’d been woken by the burning too. At least they’d be able to actively prevent their possible deaths by asphyxiation. Yaz needed everyone awake and alert if this night was going to be salvaged.

She turned her head towards the source of the smoke, her heart still loud in her throat. Straining her eyes against the billowing clouds, she pushed further on, closer to the source, and gasped for oxygen. Suspicion had planted itself deep into Yaz’s bones, laced with the fear that it might come true. There was hope, still, for a way out, an escape from her worst case scenario, but the likelihood of it was diminishing second by second.

She pressed on.

A cacophony sounded from inside the kitchen, a great angry rushing. Surprise took Yaz by the throat, and she coughed. But the smoke had started to subside. It was leaving! She looked up to the ceiling of the corridor to find slants of in-built vents. She watched as smoke slunk away into them, leaving precious oxygen to settle in her lungs again, and the TARDIS consumed the last of the wispy tendrils like it was starving for them.

She heaved a sigh of relief. Her worst expectations were not to be realised tonight.

But still, the source. Just because the TARDIS had dealt with the symptom, it didn’t mean the problem was solved too.

The kitchen, once she arrived, was unrecognisable. The Doctor might as well have re-enacted a bomb site. Chairs had haphazardly been strewn across the room, out of the way of the Doctor’s path. The table was no longer a deep magenta but smothered in white flour and icing. Somehow even the legs had not managed to avoid being splattered. The counters displayed the same horror story, except for where the baking ingredients had rescued the kitchen from being utterly devoid of colour. The kettle resembled an abominable snowman more than a piece of technology designed to boil water, and Yaz almost didn’t spot the microwave from underneath the sprawling mass of baking equipment. Even the fridge, with its plain white doors coated with egg whites, had become a wounded soldier in this war against responsible cooking practices.

In the middle of it all stood the perpetrator, so covered in flour she could have camouflaged herself amongst the rest of the room, wielding an equally smothered fire extinguisher. On the hob had been placed several truly upsetting trays of burned cookies, blackened almost beyond all recognition. Perhaps in another life, they could have been gingerbread men. Strangely, one of the cookies seemed to be missing. (Surely the Doctor didn’t–? No, she may have eaten soil, but even  _she_  wouldn’t eat charcoal masquerading as baked goods.)

As she silently took in the carnage that lay before her eyes, Yaz heard a high-pitched cackle. She frowned, scanned all around for the noise - and caught a glimpse of a golden brown rounded man diving between her legs. Behind her, he hauled himself back up and sprinted as fast as his little gingerbread legs would take him, out of the kitchen and towards freedom. Stunned, Yaz could only watch him go.

Eventually, Yaz’s heart rate returned to normal. They were alive. They were safe.

But they were all exhausted from having had their sleep interrupted. And there was only one perpetrator.

A clang made her jump. She turned her attention back to the Doctor again, who had just placed the extinguisher onto the floor and sent a great white cloud up into the air.

As the flour cloud settled, the Doctor’s figure became slowly visible. She was still whiter than snow, but instead of appearing shocked, there seemed to be a hint of bemusement in her expression.

“Oops?” she shrugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to yaz for being the Dramatic Hoe i always knew she was


	11. two useless sapphics in their natural habitat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what about an angsty/ends in fluff fic based on your last reblog? yaz notices the doctor throwing "love" around constantly and it hurts a little more each time it isn't directed at her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this was a little heavier on the fluff than it was the angst but i like things to be _happy_ okay  
> also there are some slightly spoilery bits about the new year's episode so if you haven't watched it yet, please come back to read this _after_ you've rectified that terrible situation.  
> featuring: the doctor literally never shuts up, yaz is a brooding moody sapphic and still too adorable for my heart to take, and graham has to sacrifice one of his sandwiches.

Love.

She threw that word around a lot.

It was part of the magic that was innate to her. A bucketful of curiosity, a taste for danger, just a pinch of madness - and an endless amount of love. The Doctor’s hearts were so big, it was incredible that she could stand under the weight of them.

Every single day Yaz had known her, the Doctor had professed her love for something or other. It didn’t matter how big or small it was. From apple-bobbing to conspiracies, to her biscuits or Team TARDIS - everything was worthy in her eyes, everything needed to be commented on.

Maybe it did, for the Doctor. Slowly, Yaz, Graham and Ryan were completing the puzzle of the Doctor’s illustrious past - piece by piece, comment by comment. They were never going to find out everything, but what they knew so far was enough for Yaz to know of the heartbreak having two hearts full of love brought.

All of the friends the Doctor had made only to watch them fall. The collateral damage, the planets visited, the planets destroyed right in front of her eyes.  Everything turning to dust after its creation. Yaz couldn’t comprehend it all. Just to love everything again after all that seemed an act of defiance.

The Doctor couldn’t say it enough. It didn’t feel like a proper day with her if she didn’t celebrate her love, in all its forms. It didn’t feel like a proper day if the Doctor wasn’t almost overly excited about something, the little and the big. The universe just didn’t function right, somehow.

At the start, Yaz’s heart burst at every mention. The more they shared with each other, the more she could cherish. The Doctor’s magic would pass from her being into Yaz’s, it would fill up and she’d grow, every day stronger and better and more grateful.

The universe was more beautiful with love in it.

The universe was more beautiful with the Doctor in it.

It was when Yaz started to combine those sentences together that it became more and more bittersweet. Loving the Doctor was easy, Yaz knew. It was like loving energy itself. It didn’t even occur to her that she wouldn’t. But just because the act of it was easy, it didn’t mean the entire experience was. She loved the Doctor’s love, she always would, and she loved how it was seemingly endless…

It was just never directed at her.

That was all. She could live with it. It was nothing to cry about.

(Just didn’t feel like nothing, though.)

 

“Aw, I love this one!” the Doctor grinned as they stepped out of the TARDIS, off on yet another adventure. “The Leizich Gift, this place is called. The entire planet’s a conservation centre, bestowed as a present to the Skreun president from two very famous conservationists, the Leizich Sisters. Lovely people, once beat ‘em in an arm wrestling competition. Gertrude was surprisingly strong, but Geraldine was weak as anything. I was quite disappointed, really. D’you know, there are more animals roaming here than there are humans on Earth!” She turned back to her best friends, throwing her arms wide. “And I love ‘em all!”

Yaz’s smile was only half intact.

Fresh into 2019, and they were starting it off the right way. It was deserved, the Doctor had said, after that tussle with the Dalek. Instead of creepy farm buildings and governmental centres, they were being treated to nice, harmless creatures living their best lives.

“D’you think there’ll be a café?” Graham wondered as he finally stepped out of the police box. “If not, I brought tuna sandwiches, just in case.”

“Never liked tuna,” Ryan sniffed. “‘Sides, you’re gonna attract all the animals with ‘em.”

“Ain’t that what we want?”

His grandson paused. “Depends if they ‘ave fangs or not.”

The Doctor, a little bit further in front with Yaz, had turned around and watched this exchange. Then she tutted like an impatient mother, hands on her hips and all.

“I love those two to bits, but they aren’t half slow,” she complained to Yaz. She raised her voice to address the two men. “Come on, slow pokes! We’ve not even got our passes yet!”

So that was even Ryan and Graham, Yaz noted. The Doctor loved everyone. Everyone but her.

 

They’d landed in the tropical section of the planet. Rich in juicy red foliage and humming with humidity, it was a good deal different to Sheffield on New Year’s Day. Yaz’s outer clothes quickly became too much; both Ryan and Graham shucked off their jackets. Luckily, a lot of the path was overgrown with vines and other plants that had become skilled at tripping walkers up. They required a truck to travel through - so the group at least got to put their jackets on the truck bed while they peered at the thick trees.

After almost every bend, the Doctor pointed out a new animal, rattling off a new fact at lightning speed. She never missed a trick. Most of the creatures were never seen by the others, but they sounded fascinating enough, and Yaz was determined to let herself enjoy the trip.

It was also a nice distraction from noticing just how close the Doctor was while they were crouched on the back of a truck. Plenty of space on the truck bed and she’d chosen to snuggle up right next to Yaz, even resting one of her legs on top of the other woman’s.

(Yaz could smell peppermint and engine oil, and just a hint of nutmeg.)

The Doctor almost jumped out of her seat, suddenly. “Oh!” she cried with joy, flinging up an arm and pointing at something in the distance. She moved it to counteract the trajectory of the truck. “A flotto! Aw, mate, I love a good flotto! Just there, in between those burgundy branches, look.”

Everyone followed the direction of her finger to find a rather fat, round creature, lazily taking in the day’s heat. From what Yaz could make out in the few seconds she’d seen it, a flotto was like a hippo with a thick snake’s head, and it was covered in glistening black scales. Scary looking thing, Yaz thought. Almost like a dragon.

It caught sight of them and sniffed, curious. Graham shifted nervously, looking down at his pockets stuffed with sandwiches. But apparently tuna wasn’t on its menu for today, and neither were three tasty humans and an alien from outer space. Thank goodness. It just shuffled deeper into the trees instead.

The Doctor seemed to read her thoughts. “Y’see, it  _looks_  terrifying,” she explained. Now they had spotted it, she let her hand accompany its partner in a crazy dance, a constant product of the Doctor’s need to physically express herself. “Their fangs are some of the largest on this entire planet. They’ve been made into mythological creatures a thousand times over across this galaxy and hunted extensively ‘cause of it. But actually, they’re completely harmless. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Evolution’s just like that sometimes.” The Doctor sighed happily. “Ah, I love ‘em. Nearly accidentally bought one off a black market just a couple of planets over. Complete misunderstanding, that language was a new one to me.”

The truck charged on, and they lost sight of the creature. The Doctor retrieved her arm and, seemingly without a thought, flung it over Yaz’s shoulder.

Yaz was left to calm her heart rate while the Doctor smiled and closed her eyes, basking in the heat and the calm of the day.

 

Hours later and the white sun was still high in the sky. Yaz was sweating buckets now, even with her jacket tied around her waist, and she wasn’t the only one. Even the Doctor had had to take her coat off. Neither did it help that they’d left the truck behind, electing to continue their journey on foot. Yaz didn’t know when they were going to stop walking and head back to the TARDIS, but she wasn’t enjoying the prospect of the return trip. She had no idea how long that was going to take.

Yaz was walking alongside the Doctor. It was just the two of them, and this was how it usually was. Ryan and Graham brought up the rear, taking in the sights at their own pace and having their family chats, while Yaz tried to soak up as much one-on-one time with Doctor as possible. Plus, any exercise she lost out on by not sticking to her workout regime was duly recovered just from trying to keep up with the Doctor’s quick pace.

Yaz lived for these moments. It was nice to see the Doctor relax, to be content with their surroundings and just let herself enjoy it. No people to see, no planets to save. They could joke together, talk through past adventures, listen to each other’s worries. When Yaz was in the deep end of her despair over her unrequited affection, these were the memories that made her feel better again. No matter what the Doctor felt for her, they at least bonded well.

But Yaz  _was_  quieter today, and the Doctor was evidently too excited to notice, throwing stories out like she needed them to live.

So perhaps it was a defence mechanism, Yaz deduced, after seeing a Dalek again. Go off and pretend it didn’t affect you, until you have the space to deal with it. She recognised it well; it was part of her job, after all. The standoff with the Dalek had been quite the scare, and they’d all been shaken by it, especially Ryan, but it was over now, and by and large they’d all recovered. Still, none of the humans had had any previous run-ins with the alien, no bad blood. Of course it was going to take the Doctor a little bit longer to process.

Still, in her hurt, it didn’t help to see the Doctor so oblivious, even more so than usual.

Or so Yaz thought. Distracted as she was by her miserable internal monologue, she barely noticed the other woman’s free hand slipping into hers. It was only with a quick squeeze that it was brought to her attention.

Yaz jolted, entirely unprepared. The Time Lord often held her hand but it was usually to hurry the team along. And it definitely wasn’t with interlocked fingers, either.

It was far too nice.

“You’re quiet, Yaz,” the Time Lord remarked. “Anything you want to talk about?”

You, was Yaz’s first thought. But that came across as a little too… heavy.

If she was honest, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to voice these fears, afraid she’d say too much. Her worst nightmare would be to feel the Doctor distance herself from Yaz, to create space between them when she only wanted to be closer.

But she was here in the first place, travelling with the Doctor, because she’d wanted to do more, to  _be_  more. Because she’d had the guts to invite herself on board. She couldn’t say no, not now; she couldn’t stop herself. This was who she was.

Diving headfirst into it even if it killed her.

“You always say you love things,” Yaz started, looking down to avoid the Doctor’s gaze, “pretty much every day. It’s lovely, Doctor, but…” She held out her hand to push away a giant red leaf in their way. “Why’ve you never said it about me?”

The Doctor watched her, puzzled. Her movement through the rainforest floor was effortless, even deep in thought, and Yaz envied her.

“I swear I have,” the Doctor responded.

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“Never,” Yaz nodded. She took in a deep breath. “Trust me. I wouldn’t’ve forgotten.”

She finally caught the Doctor’s eye - and she had to subdue a gasp at the sorrow that resided in them. It was like the Doctor’s hearts had broken open.

“Yasmin Khan,” the Doctor announced, and they stopped right there, almost covered by more humongous scarlet foliage. The Doctor hung her coat on a branch near her and turned to face Yaz. She now made sure to hold both of Yaz’s hand, and brought them together to cradle like they were a precious stone, worth more than her weight in gold.  “Yasmin Khan, don’t ever think I don’t love you. I’m stupid to have not said it to you already. Fact is, I do love you. Very much, as it happens, which makes me an idiot for having forgotten to tell you!”

Okay, this was definitely more of an announcement than Yaz had been expecting.  She was unsteady under the weight of the Doctor’s sincerity, a light ablaze in the Time Lord’s eyes.

All she could do was keep watching, mouth half-open, half-unbelieving. But there was a little part of her, daring to believe it.

“I’d certainly thought about telling you,” the Doctor continued. “I tell you all the time, in my head. Whenever you speak my language, or do something clever - which is all the time - or whenever you smile - ‘cause it’s the  _loveliest_  sight, Yaz, I swear - or whenever you look out for someone…” She huffed. “I’m getting distracted. Yasmin Khan, I couldn’t not love you if I tried.”

“In what way?” Yaz asked, before she could stop herself.

For goodness’ sake, Yaz, she chastised herself immediately, just take it. Just take it. She’d got what she wanted.

She was too busy mentally kicking herself to notice the Doctor’s blink of surprise.

“Oh, um…”

“As in,” Yaz continued, despite her embarrassment. This was going to haunt her for as long as she’d live. “You don’t love me the way you love custard creams, right?”

The Doctor laughed. “My love for custard creams is very special and unique,” she joked. Her eyes dropped lower, though - still on Yaz, but this time on her lips, on her body, and back up to her eyes again. “But no. It’s more than just that. It’s very much… more.”

The tiniest little gasp escaped from Yaz.

Well. That was… that was something.

“That’s a relief,” she breathed.

Their moment to just watch each other, euphoric, lasted for a second - enormously long under the weight of their confessions yet over all too quickly. Ryan and Graham had finally caught up, and their loud stomping through the trees and plants was preceding them.

“And I love you in a much different way to those two,” the Doctor added, “just in case any more clarification was needed.” She finally turned her head towards the sound of her other friends. “They couldn’t be quieter, could they? They’re scaring all the animals off.”

However, nothing could prepare them for the sight they were greeted with when Graham and Ryan finally came into view. Two creatures with bright violet fur, otter-like in appearance but monkey-like in nature, were sitting quite contentedly on the shoulders of the two men, their long arms lounging gracefully on the humans’ heads. Ryan looked extraordinarily pleased with himself, while Graham looked a little miffed that his creature had stolen one of his tuna sandwiches.

The Doctor’s face lit up even more. “Kakas! I  _love_  kakas!” the Doctor exclaimed. She stopped herself suddenly, a pleased smile taking over. “Not as much as I love Yasmin Khan, though.”

Yaz grinned at her. She was glowing, reassured and floored by the Doctor’s confession. Nothing was better than watching the Doctor smile at her, distracted by her once again, feeling her pull Yaz in, invite her closer.

Yaz was on cloud nine. With the way she was looking at Yaz, she knew the Doctor was too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's for a good cause, graham, it'll be okay  
> also i want a kaka _and_ a flotto now :(


	12. head / hand / heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you're still doing prompts, soft first kisses ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is so much to feel and the universe is not always kind, but they at least have each other.
> 
> featuring: the doctor helps yaz through grief; they go undercover as wives; and yaz saves the day.
> 
> the three parts - ['kiss your head'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ep6nGsQjWGk), ['kiss your fingers'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Te11UaHOHMQ), and ['kiss and be kissed back'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f4KHcqxAvzE) \- all have corresponding songs i'd urge you to listen to while reading this, so please click on the links and please enjoy a glimpse of my music taste.

_**kiss your head** _

Yaz only feels the Doctor’s lips for the first time when she is cracking.

Grief had made her a stone warrior. Walking away in the high grasses and a scent in the warm air that carried a promise of legacy, she felt the hardening of her insides just before the guns went off. The shot was muffled to her ears. She saw the Doctor flinch, all jagged emotion an endless sight, and her eyes stayed on the aching woman – but the gesture of grief did not pass over to her. (The granddaughter.) Her mouth was set in a frown as part of the mould.

Yet. The endlessness that encompasses – emulates? Erupts from? – the Doctor does not tire. No matter how much the Time Lord may hold back, her influence never does. Around her, they are reminded that they can be, unapologetically. Until the very end they are all of their gestures.

The Doctor knows this. She knows when to let sentiment simmer, to let it billow within a lonely chest; and when to embrace. She knows it so well she’s in Yaz’s head. She slipped through the armour long ago, ever since the incident on the train. She is always a guiding force.

And she was saying let it out.

PC Khan is a stone warrior. Yaz is breaking apart. Grief pours molten and the cracks begin to show until the armour splits wide open. She is gasping for air, crouched on the floor of the TARDIS console room two nights after they leave the Punjab.

Gasping. Prem. A good man. A braver soul than his brother, a braver soul than her still. She loves the stories of her nana and nani, yet keener still is the story of a man whose blood she does not share. The man who paved the way for her unknowingly, by walking to his death.

Let him out.

(His death is part of her life. To have known him is to make molten cracks burn her skin. An awful gratitude.)

Gasping. All she can picture is his body in the fields. The Thijarians standing over where his brother does not – where she should be, where she should have said sorry—

“Yaz?” The voice is panicked. “Yaz, can you hear me?”

She brings her hands away from her face to find the endless staring back at her. It is understanding. There is so much death and so much pain and suffering held in there, Yaz can hear the two hearts breaking all over again, fresh wounds burning scarred skin.

In amongst the heaving, the gasping, she attempts an exhale. “I—”

“You don’t have to speak,” the Doctor insists. The heaviness that weighs down the endless escapes again. Yaz latches onto it by proxy of mustard suspenders and holds so tight her arms shake. “You don’t have to say anything. Just let go. You’ll be okay.”

The four halves of two broken hearts wrap around her own single damage, the same time as the Doctor’s arms find her shoulders.

“You’ll be okay.”

Let it out.

She thinks Ryan fetches her tissues. She thinks she says thanks. She is encompassed by the endless and she is too busy in their sharing – she is too busy hearing the breaking to register it.

But it helps. It helps to know that her grief is not hiding in a lonely chest. Her public remorse has helped to heat the lava that cracked her weak stone warrior armour. She cannot grieve if she is stuck behind a wall.

It takes a while – whispered sorries petering away to nothing, eventually – but it stops. In the end. The Doctor has cradled her all this time, bleary-eyed and bottomless in her own breaking, but here still, holding her still. When Yaz’s bawling seems to stop, the Time Lord doesn’t let Yaz leave her grip, not without a warm hug and a kiss on her forehead.

 

 

_**kiss your fingers** _

In a room full of grace, Yaz only sees her.

Garlands and statues and flowers; glistening, shining, flawless. Every wall illuminated by the most ornate of ornamented lamps, every table delighted by candles flickering in a frenzy. Material as soft as silk draping every surface, every corner. There is barely enough space for the guests, yet still they are heaving; they are glistening, shining, flawless. Everything is beautiful.

At the start, the Doctor promised them sights to remember. And she has delivered. Yaz has never seen such extravagance – never been such extravagance – but even the air around her ring-laden fingers shimmers with perfume. Even just one spray would cost more than ten of her monthly paychecks.

She is enchanted. It is hard to remember they have a purpose here; that they did not strike gold with their fortune. (Yaz does not need to dress up to believe that.) But enchantment is a concoction infused with danger when it comes to travelling with the Doctor – and Yaz has been starving all her life for it.

For all this grace, this alien, extravagant decorum, it is nothing when it comes to the Doctor.

Her endlessness is palpable. If Yaz wasn’t so sure of it before tonight, she is now. What else could be the case? A star-studded dress folding in on itself, flowing to the floor. The lightness of a moon when light lifts mirrors in her eyes. Her quickfire rambling; enthusiasm and information and intelligence wrapped golden in wit.

Glistening. Shining. Flawless.

It’s almost a shame Ryan and Graham aren’t partaking. Almost. They are busy being the busybodies of this operation from behind the scenes. The Doctor and Yaz elected to partake in glamour, taking great delight in playing pretend. They have put on their best acting smiles, held their heads up high as they  glide into the game. Undercover as Lady Athenia of Renoloruffa and her wife, Lady Irisa, gleaning intel from the guests. A target, a friend, is in danger; the star of the night.

It is not hard to act so superficially in the face of superficial guests; a certain falsity pervades in the too-perfect perfume, the cordial politeness. It’s almost something from the period dramas on TV; all the twists and traps lie beneath. Everyone knows everyone is acting.

They only act their images. Their names are fake but wonder is true to her bones. Athenia and Irisa are famous for their intimacy, Yaz has discovered. Irisa, “the Lady’s Muse”. Longing looks and untameable smiles have been immortalised into language. Legends before death.

Everyone knows everyone is acting, but on those longing looks, Yaz doesn’t have to.

“He’s suspicious,” the Doctor whispers. “I think he thinks we’re the assassins.”

She is close. The disguise cannot dull her scent – peppermint and engine oil and lily. And, always, the Doctor. Yaz must not close her eyes and revel in it. She must rebel against a revelation she uncovered long ago, when the Doctor’s lips were placed to her head and she fell into it.

“Oh, no,” the Doctor continues, oblivious.

The rest of the room has gone silent. They are watching the target.

Yaz can’t bring herself to do the same. The Doctor’s earrings twinkle when they catch the light just so: stars so bright they’ll go blind; hands to hold love so tight, letting go would feel even worse. “What?”

“Yaz. He wants us to dance.”

This is a courtship celebration: a revered ritual for a species that suffered so much just to survive. Every attempt at romance is a momentous occasion. Couples emerge bonded for life, sure of each other’s abilities, through a complex set of rules that must be obeyed and only attempted once. Those who know them all must be willing to partake alongside, to showcase the courters; rudeness and conflicts otherwise.

“Even refusing to dance alongside them,” the Doctor finishes explaining, eyes trained on the clawed hand pointed at herself and Yaz, “is the height of rudeness. We’ve been called. Come on, wife.”

“Doctor,” Yaz hisses, “I have no idea how to—“

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” the woman clad in silver stars reassures her. Her eyes have locked Yaz to the very spot. “Promise.”

Yaz feels her worry fall like fireworks.

Her dress, cut off at the thighs, does very little for movement, but with the Doctor’s guidance, regret is shuttered off into nothingness. There is nothing to regret here. No regret that she never took up dance when she could, no regret that she chose the wrong dress, no regret that she is posing as the wife of a woman neither of them know particularly well.

There’s nothing but the Doctor’s eyes on her; the Doctor’s eyes on their feet and how they fall together as natural as falling leaves; the Doctor’s eyes on the swirling details of Yaz’s burnt scarlet dress and the light she sees, the brightness. I’ve got you. The hands around her waist are the surest warmth. She is gotten; she is felt.

There is very little need to move much. The target dances with his partner and the crowd gasp appreciatively. Yaz and the Doctor are not the main show. But it feels like it. She is felt.

There’s a movement far off in the distance, in the shadow of a corner. Five eyes trained on the target and none of them friendly. The Doctor senses them, too, and the tenderness in her eyes is shuttered away for determination to take their place. With a final flourish, they finish their dance, their courtship for show. When she lets go and plants a soft kiss on Yaz’s ring-laden hand, it feels less for image, and the reminiscence of a forehead kiss breaks through their concentration on the assassins.

Just for a moment, Yaz is everything shimmering.

 

_**kiss and be kissed back** _

War drums stalk in shadows like wolves here. War drums will howl over life’s cry and drown it out.

This planet was kind to them, centuries ago. Blessed with gratitude and good fortune, watching the common comets sprinkle the planet’s night sky in a fireworks display. Everything the Daasians sang was a thank you; Yaz felt it, joined in. Felt the grace of it. She said thank you again, in the prayer room: relieved, emboldened, empowered.

Different world. A chance, just passing by, scarring nostalgia with their witness of the monuments crumbled. White hot happiness turning to white hot hate; burns where a helping hand would heal. Their return has not been welcome, on this eve of war. Fear follows their sorrowful hope.

Except by the children.

Little Kimma, the beloved son of a president; nephew of a First Highest. Caught, beloved, in the crossfire of almost-hating brothers. He warmed to Yaz instantly. She has been the only one to treat him his age - not a successor of two lands. A boy with a voice and a little hope.

The Doctor has been frantic in a desperate attempt to save mutuality from plunging to oblivion. Ryan and Graham follow in her terror. Yaz keeps calm for Kimma.

The Doctor is never-ending. She knows it, is desperate for the triumph that brings – the joy, the love, the learning. But even then there are limitations – Yaz may know she is endless but there are people determined to find her ends.

If the Doctor had time, Yaz knows she would comfort Kimma. She would tell him stories from Gallifrey and get him to sing the ancient Praesis. Yaz’s time with the police has refined her empathy, so he sings for her, for Yaz only, and she feels at home in the gratitude he still finds even now.

And standing now, in the middle of a vast plain, with roiling clouds anticipating the low growl of war drums, she thinks it a strength to be grateful.

This is the final test for Daas, and the Doctor is out of ideas. But this time, it’s Yaz who knows how, with Kimma insistent on being by her side. Here in this plain, he trembles, his family dangling at a precipice. What he finds for them is a rope.

She takes his hand. “D'you remember that Praes you sang for me?” He nods. “Can you sing it again?”

“How’s that gonna help?” Graham starts.

Yaz keeps staring into Kimma’s confusion and implores. “Just for me?”

Standing here on this almost-battlefield, Kimma is magnified. His almost-hating father and uncle listen in from distant government offices, surprised by their boy’s little hope.

There is no promise of ending the fear, only a portrayal of his people’s strongest characteristic. Gratitude. When the others start singing, his little hope returning to them like common comets, Yaz knows it is enough for now.

She looks over to her friends, to Kimma’s audience, and sees the Doctor only watching her.

They sit, a little while later, crossed-legged like children on the floor of the TARDIS console room. They are warriors finally free to rest, drained from Daas, in the false night a blanket hush. Only light streams from open police doors, and the golden glow of the TARDIS is replaced by a nebula. Stars twinkle in the near-far distance and Yaz is reminded of the Doctor’s dress, the starlight satin.

Yaz can feel the depths of lines on her face. Just by glimpsing. Millennia lines of fighting, in some way. Millennia of loving still. Yaz hopes if she could ever reach that age, she’d be just like the Doctor. Feel so strong still, be moved by the beauty and the burning. Like the common comets.

So many deep thought lines for a face so fresh, so freshly scared.

“I was so sure we’d lost,” the Doctor murmurs, her whisper amplified by her proximity, her voice as low as the lights. “So resigned to the war. Awful, awful thing to think.”

“You still set the whole thing up,” Yaz reminds her. “You pushed so hard for communication this week. Working with the Draasians must’ve been hell.”

The Doctor is reluctant to nod – aware of their ancestors, their descendants. “And you got Kimma to sing.”

“It was the only thing I could do,” she answers. She misses him already. “It’s a beautiful song.”

“There’s so much kindness in you, Yaz, so much love and depth. You saved a planet because you listened when no one else would.” The draught from the open doors reaches their toes and they huddle closer. A face so full of wonder. “I could only look at you. Nothing else came close. You blew me away. You in your everything. The universe is so grateful to have you.”

In space light in a blanket hush, they sit on a precipice. Faces closer than ever, and hearts in throats. Instead of the day’s almost-mournful events, memories of grief, of curling into the Doctor, are a silent film in front of her eyes. The scene changes to the twirling on the ballroom floor, the Time Lord and a Muse. She watches it come alive before her eyes, in slow motion, the cinema dissolving into a new reality: the dip of a head, the feel of soft lips.

They are her lips responding, and her hands do not tingle with a ghost touch. They are gripping mustard suspenders and running through blonde hair and giving her heart to a warm body, a warm soul. Now more than ever they are encompassed by the endless. She is too busy in their sharing to feel anything but wide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i'm just dramatic with my word choices don't @ me


	13. when you can't fight the bitter taste: the posession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Resolution" but Yaz is possessed instead of Ryan's dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from 'safe' by daya
> 
> i'm back from a completely unexpected hiatus (trust me i wasn't expecting it either) with angst and lots of juicy introspection. aren't i treating you. my explanation for my absence is starting university after xmas finished, and my return is entirely unjustified considering i'm still at uni, with an impending deadline, but i never claimed to be sensible okay
> 
> this is part one of two; the second will be the aftermath. look out for that tomorrow!
> 
> featuring: canon divergence but also faith to the script; lots of anger, a bit of crying, and good old love confessions. also a lot of paragraphing. enjoy

In amongst the chaos, they ignore you.

Make the chaos know you.

She can’t she can’t she can’t. She can’t do this to them. To the Doctor.

 

Look at her.

The rubble and debris of a Dalek shell lie at the Doctor’s feet, but she is skipping, almost, through the communications room. The lights are dim but her smile is brighter – always, always, so much brighter – as she parades her victory around.

She is not looking at Yaz. None of them are; they are too taken in by the Doctor’s triumph to focus on anything but her. Always the Doctor. Even Aaron, the resident outsider, scampers through the smashed metal parts to join the rest of the gang.

The Doctor throws out her device and scans the room with it. What is she looking for? Everyone is curious. Her device chimes.

‘Signal never sent,’ the Doctor remarks. Her smile is back in full force, her hands waving in her exultation.

She is too busy loving herself to think about you.

You are alone.

Yaz takes this moment to recede into the shadows, to wrestle with this on her own. Her feet are unsteady; she stumbles.

‘I think that was my best skid ever. I am so chuffed,’ the Doctor is grinning away, so her voice carries above the scuffing of Yaz’s trainers. ‘Well done, team! Gang! Extended fam!’ The Doctor’s gestures are exaggerated – self-congratulating – but she still hasn’t noticed Yaz’s absence.

You want her to, but she will never notice you.

You are alone in this.

She is not alone.

No one is going to help you.

The Doctor—

The Dalek laughs.

The others are frozen with fear. Good.

No one is going to help you.

 

She tries so hard to cry.

The Dalek will not consider a tactical retreat as anything but a surrender. The mission is too important. It is a survivor. It is adaptable. It is exploitative.

Happy to exploit you. The Dalek fleets will thank you.

It will thank the Doctor, too. The explosion was a blessing in disguise.

The explosion dictated the direction the Dalek flew. Yaz got unlucky; she was too close to where it landed. As soon as it reached for her, touched her, her fate was sealed, and the aftermath of the explosion gave the Dalek enough time to settle in properly, get used to her motions and her information.

You give me so much to work with.

In that, she is learning so much about this alien race of hate. She is learning so much about its motivations, its history. And its history with the Doctor.

All these faces. All these stories. All the death and the killing and violence.

It is telling that the Doctor kept this from you.

The squirming of the Dalek’s tentacles fills her ears. She hates it she hates she hates it.

Love and hate are intense emotions. They are parallels. It is so easy to manipulate love to feed hate.

That is the best thing about this vessel. The others would have been weaker. Your love makes our hate greater.

Love is the paper on which hate will write over. The words would not be clear if love did not provide such a malleable canvas.

She is trying so hard to resist. So hard. But she feels like stone. Her thoughts are vague, echoes, as the Dalek takes over her internal processes, a virus made massive. It takes every ounce of strength she has just to be conscious through it all.

She can feel the Dalek’s hatred, the way it delights in her fear. It is poisoning her, poisoning every good thing about her.

Fire needs a fuel to keep it burning. It is taking everything she loves and setting it alight.

 

This is an incredible loathing. Loud and angry and _hot_. Yaz has not known hate like this. It is a never-ending energy that consumes her as much as it consumes others. It is sustenance and exertion all at once. It is the sickest form of pleasure, one that makes her feel healthy as much as it kills the best parts of her. She is so active, so energetic, in this hatred.

You will burn in this hatred.

She will burn in this hatred.

 

The Doctor will never love you back.

Yaz is starting to hate her for it.

 

They all have turned around, trepidation and terror incarnate. Mouths are gaping and brains are whirring; implications abound. The Dalek is still alive. Humanity is still in its death throes.

The Dalek’s laugh echoes around the circular room and although Yaz hears it, she tries not to. It petrifies her. If she could use her hands, she would slam them onto her ears, block out the ungodliest sound, pray Allah she can get rid of it from her memory forever.

She cannot move her eyes. It is directing her. She cannot blink as the Doctor walks toward her.

Her expression is—

The Doctor is in pain. The Doctor is in pain! Was there ever a more glorious sight?

It is more than pain. It is a thousand things. It is anger and pain and horror. It is terror. It is white hot terror, so encompassing that all the blood has drained from her face. It is desperation. It is detestation. It is regret. It is a bottomless ache that is taking hold. The Dalek wants her to shut down, shut down in the face of a species she could never kill. She will never kill the Daleks.

The Doctor knows she will see her friend die first.

All of them. But Yaz first.

The ache goes deeper and deeper at the thought. As she walks closer to Yaz, she starts to tremble.

‘Yaz,’ the Doctor murmurs. It is a scream if there ever was one.

 

And Yaz feels the ache too.

She wants to scream at her. Get me away from this. Save me. Get this thing off me. Save yourself. Doctor, I love you, please, please, Doctor, I hate you, you scare me, you are not the woman I thought you were, _get away from me._

‘Yaz?’ Ryan’s voice is the meekest it’s ever been. He cannot tear his away from this monster.

The explosion truly was a blessing in disguise. It will not have to wait now. It will come home to glory.

‘You underestimate me, Doctor,’ it gasps. Yaz’s voice is twisted beyond recognition. It makes her step forward, once, twice, three times, and her arms swing limply. ‘Daleks survive.’

She wants to scream. Get away from me.

‘Doctor, do something!’ Ryan’s imploring is hopeless. He looks to the Doctor like she puts the sun in the sky. He trusts her beyond common sense.

She will do nothing.

She cannot save you.

Yaz can only stare as she watches the Doctor fall apart immaculately.

‘I’m sorry, Yaz,’ the Doctor says, and it is barely louder than a whisper.

 

Look how she shakes. Limbs tense with a flight or fight response, and both of them worthless. The bravado, the cheer, the energy, all for nothing. All pointless. Look at the regret. The Doctor regrets! The Dalek is gleeful as they watch her frown, shaking her head, going back in her mind to where she went wrong, to where she lost Yaz forever.

 

The Doctor is defeated. She is the slave of the Daleks now.

‘I miscalculated,’ she continues.

Yaz’s heart is breaking in two.

She will not be the—

Do not fool yourself into thinking she can save you. Once the Daleks take Earth, you will not see her again.

Do not fool yourself. She will not help you. She does not love you.

Yaz detests her.

 

‘You will take me to the Dalek fleet,’ the Dalek instructs her. It almost wants to laugh at the imperceptible shake of her head. As if she can say no. ‘Resist…’

The Dalek punctures further into Yaz and pain shoots into every corner of her being. The various made massive is everywhere. Her body is compromised. She groans on instinct.

The Doctor almost runs to her, but stops herself.

Get away from me get it away from me save me please I don’t want to hate you I hate—

‘…and this body will be destroyed,’ the Dalek finishes.

The Doctor’s gaze follows the path of the tear tracks that have traversed down Yaz’s face. While her body shakes with her emotions, her limbs are planted solidly in their place. She is frozen by her grief.

Is this the Doctor? Immovable and defeated, because of one woman? She is weaker than the Dalek thought. So influenced by pointless things.

‘Doctor, do something,’ Ryan repeats.

Yaz doesn’t want to look at him, look at any of them. She doesn’t trust them she hates them she is going to die and they don’t care they are doing nothing—

‘Fine,’ the Doctor concedes.

It interrupts Yaz’s muffled thought process. So that’s all? She’s condemned? She shouldn’t be surprised anymore.

The Doctor will sacrifice you to kill the one thing she has always failed to kill. She is out for glory just like the Daleks.

She would make a very good Dalek. More so than Yaz. You are so much weaker.

In amongst the knowledge the Dalek feeds Yaz – all of the skirmishes and fights and near-deaths, coloured by the bias of the alien race – she can detect an undercurrent of terror. The Daleks have encountered many alien species but none of them have put fear into the hearts of the Daleks like the Doctor.

It is not a good thing. The Doctor is someone to be wary of.

Yaz knows that now.

‘Doctor, seriously?’ Graham questions, from the Doctor’s left.

The Doctor is steadfast in her defeatism. ‘My decision.’ She turns to the Dalek-Yaz, and for a second her eyes travel down Yaz’s face, even as Yaz shakes under the strain of being host. ‘Just promise me you’ll let her go.’ The Doctor swallows. ‘You will keep her alive. She is my one condition.’

Yaz thinks she smiles.

‘You are my prisoners now.’

 

The humans are morose as they stand in the TARDIS. Contemplating their new fates as servants of the Dalek Empire. Lin and her male human huddle close to each other out of fear. Lin keeps looking at Yaz and massaging the back of her own neck.

The Doctor has been flying her ship and she is stricken. Ashen. Defeated. Hopeless. Her face is in the shadows and the Dalek prefers it that way. If the Doctor is not staring ahead, glazed and resigned, then she is glancing at Yaz, her heart shattering all over again and her desperation mounting.

The Dalek loves their fear. It does not care for their other feelings.

You will not care for their feelings.

Yaz’s eyes are swivelling round and she takes in the view of the moving TARDIS, listening as the discomforted groaning fills the vast console room. She is looking at it through the eyes of the Dalek’s greed and she is in awe.

This machine is so powerful. It never dawned on her before. It could be used for so many things. The pleasure would not be the journey but the easy ticket to new, exciting victories. Every trip to different places would be for conquests, not exploration.

All the possibilities!

‘The glory of a TARDIS shall be ours,’ the Dalek says. One of the tentacles reaches up into the trapped air as if cheering.

There are so many benefits to come of this. The Doctor has finally been defeated and the Daleks will celebrate the vanquishing of the Oncoming Storm.

 

And you – your name will be known for this glorious success.

But you will not be here to see it.

 

She will die and her family will never know how.

She will never get to say goodbye.

 

‘Help her,’ Ryan says to the Doctor; blind still, as if their friendship with Yaz is worthy enough. It is almost admirable, but it will never be enough.

‘Trust me?’ the Doctor asks, working on her flying TARDIS, but though her decision is final, she does not seem to trust herself. She hauls up a lever but, Yaz sees, it takes effort. She is weak. ‘We’ve landed.’

The trepidation is loud enough for all to hear.

All Yaz hears is pain. Pain, and a deep-set fury.

The tentacle over Yaz’s shoulder is active again; it brushes across her face as the Dalek gestures. Slimy and sinister. She abhors it. It abhors her but right now it does not care.

‘Finally, my mission is complete.’ Centuries of defeat and brokenness have turned into the greatest Dalek victory of them all. The Dalek turns Yaz around and starts walking her to the TARDIS doors. ‘The Earth and the Doctor shall submit before the Dalek fleet.’

Her trainers are so loud as she stomps uneasily on the metal floor. A Dalek shell would be much more discreet. Much more comfortable.

Then the doors fling open and the fleet is not there. The fleet is not there. Only wind and imbalance and death, death, death.

 

The Dalek will _not_ die.

She will not die—

 

She tries her best to keep steady, but the Dalek is heavy on her back and she is too close to the TARDIS doors. The winds of space howl and pull her further back, their enveloping colder than even the slime of the Dalek’s tentacles. She stumbles one step back, then another.

‘Did I forget to mention?’ the Doctor’s voice rings out. ‘No fleet. Only a sun going supernova, and a squid-sized vacuum corridor, about to pull you out into space.’

She is loud above the din of the space winds, but only a fool would call it confident. The Dalek can feel her fear, lives for it, even when it is screaming, preoccupied by its own terror.

And Yaz is more terrified than she’s ever been. Worst of all, she does not feel hope. She is screaming too, but it is quiet.

She knows her life will go quietly in amongst all this chaos.

‘Yaz!’ Ryan shouts. He is holding onto the console – they all are. Only the Dalek-Yaz is in freefall.

‘You’re too weak, Dalek, you can’t hold on!’

‘Except,’ Graham interjects, ‘it is holding on, Doctor!’

 

The death knell chimes in a suppressed imagination. The Dalek screams to itself and it is cold.

All Yaz can think about is warmth.

 

She will burn in a supernova and her family will never know.

For once, the Dalek is too consumed by its blind fear to belittle her.

 

The Doctor moves something else but nothing helps. The winds gets louder.

The Dalek will not die the mission will be complete—

Noise escapes the Doctor – ‘The vacuum corridor’s expanding and I can’t control it!’ she yells. They are all holding on but on the Doctor’s face there is panic now, a deeper panic. Her face is contorting with anguish as she comes to the same conclusion as Yaz. This might be it.

She will lose Yaz forever.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s gonna take Yaz with it!’

 

She has sacrificed you for the taste of Dalek blood.

 

This is the time to give up. Accept her end.

 

You will not give up we will fight to stay alive and wrestle the TARDIS into control—

The console starts to fizz and smoke and explode and the Doctor screams. Everyone is struggling—

Yaz is knocked off her feet by the tremors running rampant through the TARDIS, and she skids further down into hellfire. But she is up in time for her hands to be thrown out, and latch onto the doorframe. She is holding on by her fingertips and she does not know whether that was her doing or the Dalek’s.

She is definitely grunting with the exertion. Fear is keeping them alive.

She thinks she might be crying again too.

‘Yaz!’ the Doctor screams. She is desperation incarnate.

The Daleks hates her with a blistering heat. It fears her with all it has. The coming glory of her defeat is enough motivation to hold on.

Stretching as far as she can, she bunches her hand into Ryan’s jacket and drags him over to her. She pushes his hand onto the lever she has been keeping up. ‘Hold onto that for me,’ she shouts to him. ‘I’ve got to save her.’

Confused, terrified, and wholly unprepared, all he can do is nod, and steady himself for the job at hand.

The Dalek-Yaz watches as she makes her way over to them. Grunting with effort, catapulting herself closer to the doorframe, legs flying akimbo as she runs.

‘Doctor!’ Graham yells.

She catches one of the TARDIS’ pillars and hugs it. Intensity is keeping her going, but there is something else in her eyes too, something the Dalek recoils from.

Intensity is keeping her going, but there is something else in her eyes too, something the Dalek recoils from.

‘Yaz! Yaz! Hold on!’

Yaz is crying so much. But there’s love in the Doctor’s eyes.

She hates her. She hates the Doctor for giving her hope again.

‘Yaz, I know you can hear me,’ the Doctor says. ‘You’re doing so well, fighting the Dalek. I’m so proud of you, Yaz, and I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.’

She thinks the Doctor may be crying too.

Do not listen to her. She does not love you. Do not find hope in her she will not save you

The Dalek is growling at her. I will save you and together we will take back control of the TARDIS—

‘She is mine now,’ the Dalek retorts.

The Doctor lurches forward again. She is so close to touching her but Yaz still has to reach out.

‘No, she’s not, she’s mine!’ the Doctor answers, panting. She can barely speak through the desperation pumping through her lungs, through the steadfast desire to hold on.

Yaz admires her for it.

There is a part of her still holding on. There is a little bit of love in her still.

‘Yaz, I’m here, I’m here,’ the Doctor continues. ‘I can’t lose you now. You’re bringing so much good into this universe and it wants you, I swear. And I need you stay just as much as the universe needs you. No, more.

‘Don’t listen to what it tells you, please, don’t let it twist your goodness – fight it, fight it! You’ve got so much more left to do!’

 

She thinks the Doctor is crying.

 

Do not listen to her!

The Dalek’s screaming is still so loud to her, but it’s getting less internal.

Its grip on her may be weakening.

 

‘I love you, Yaz, I’m so sorry for this, this was never – I never wanted you to – Yaz, please remember how much love you have – I love your love – use it, please!’

 

She wills her eyes to move to the Doctor’s outstretched hand.

‘Yaz, please,’ the Doctor begs.

One final time.

The world is starting to lose its grip on her too.

 

She will kill this fire.

She will kill this damnation. And let that not damn her.

 

She throws out her hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dalek, pointing to the doctor and yaz's relationship: is this allowed? is this _allowed?_  
>  the doctor, with yaz still inanimate: _stop_


	14. when you can't fight the bitter taste: the aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Resolution" but Yaz is possessed instead of Ryan's dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part deux of 'when you can't fight the bitter taste'
> 
> featuring: yaz coming to terms with all that hatred, ryan is just such a good egg, and graham mourns the loss of a good kettle

Yaz feels numb in the fallout.

 

The release of the Dalek released all her emotions it suppressed. She gets a blast of everything once again – love fear hate joy despair safety comfort hope – as she collapses onto the floor. The Doctor beneath her cushions Yaz’s fall and neither of them have the capacity, currently, to feel self-conscious about being completely entangled.

Yaz is busy enjoying complete autonomy of her bodily processes. Breathing in, out, feeling sensation in all her limbs, in her neck. When she grabs onto the Doctor’s cape, when she flattens her hand on the Doctor’s back, she can feel the warm that emanates from the alien’s body again. There is nothing better.

The Doctor is smiling up at her, tears still in her eyes.

In a strange way, Yaz is glad.

‘I’ve got you,’ the Doctor whispers down at her. She tries to sit up slightly and rests her forehead on Yaz’s for a second. They breathe in time with each other.

The others are standing over them, out of breath, their bodies buzzing with residual terror. Ryan has let go of the TARDIS control to check on his friends, too, so the ship flies calmly away now, away from the corpse of a Dalek burning in the heat of a supernova.

It takes two beats for the calm to settle. The Doctor brings her head away to check everything is okay.

Yaz just starts sobbing.

 

The numbness comes after, when Lin, Mitch and Aaron have gone home. She is wrapped up in blankets – for shock, the analytical side of her brain chimes quietly – and sat on Graham’s sofa. The TV is on and the screen shows the news reports of the Dalek’s collateral damage, but she’s not really paying attention.

Evening has fallen for Sheffield. Curtains are closed and everyone else shut out. Yaz wants them open, to see the world she almost had ripped away from her, but there is no point at this time. There’s not much of a view from Graham’s front window anyway.

She sits, huddled, illuminated by the warm beige lights. The living room is compact, and comforting; it is like any other family room. She has been here more times than she can count, and it feels more homely now she can truly appreciate what homely feels like.

She is numb, yet never more attuned to the world.

They’ve been trying to talk to her, gliding in and out of the living room to check up on her every ten minutes. She doesn’t want to talk.

She doesn’t want to do much. She doesn’t want to be here as much as she does. She doesn’t want to be anywhere.

She wants to be with her family, but she doesn’t. She wants to show love, but she can’t show anything right now.

She is recalibrating, trying to find her pieces, wading through the mire of broken detestation to find herself again – who she was before the poisoning. The memory of the Dalek’s gloried loathing is still burned onto her brain; she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to shake it off. Or the guilt she feels.

She’d sworn it to herself, to strangers, to her friends and family, to Allah. She would never be hateful. She had faith in His universe.

When the Dalek was using her, she broke that promise. She was feeling things she reviled, _thinking_ them. It was not the universe’s fault but the Dalek’s – yet still, she could’ve fought harder, fought better, fought more. She had to be on the edge of death to fight back.

It had been horrifically selfish.

 

It compounds her numbness. Her loneliness.

So she works on rebuilding herself, finding the best pieces of herself, and patching them up with the hours that pass.

 

They remind her that, at the very least, she is still alive.

 

‘Lin recovered quicker,’ Graham whispers to the Doctor from the dining room.

It’s two in the morning. Ryan is in bed. Yaz is not yet asleep, but almost there. She is still on the sofa. Everything is quiet except for their whispering.

‘Physically, no,’ the Doctor disagrees. ‘Yaz’s neck is all but recovered. A good sleep should do the trick.’

Yaz can hear the wood of a dining chair creak. ‘I didn’t mean like that.’

There’s no noise from them for a while, just breathing. The edges of the world are getting loose.

‘The Dalek… manipulates whatever you’re feeling,’ the Doctor mutters. ‘Turns everything positive into negative. Love is the easiest to twist into hatred, especially you’ve got a lot of it.’

Graham mulls over this for half a minute. ‘But Lin had been about to go on a date with Mitch, she said,’ Graham contested. ‘Shouldn’t that have had an effect?’

‘It did.’

‘So why did it affect Yaz more?’ he asks.

‘D’you want another cup of tea, Graham?’ the Doctor asks. She tries to get out of her chair quietly, but it still protests.

‘Doc.’

‘I’m serious, I think I know how to use your kettle now,’ she continues. ‘Though I can upgrade it for you if you like.’

‘Does she love you?’

The room stills. Even the chair falls silent.

‘I know she did.’

‘Did?’ Graham questions. ‘Was that the Dalek’s doing?’

There’s silence again. Even with her conscience muffled by sleep, Yaz can picture the Doctor’s nod: all small, her fringe falling down to conceal the vulnerability loud on her face.

‘But she will again, right? It won’t change her forever?’

The Doctor sighs. ‘We’re going to have to see, aren’t we? Seriously though, d’you want another cuppa?’

 

When Yaz wakes up to see the Doctor inspecting her for any injuries, Yaz flinches.

_She has sacrificed you for the taste of Dalek blood._

She sees the Doctor’s face fall, but she still turns away.

 

‘You keep avoiding the Doctor,’ Ryan tells her, sat away from her on the arm of the sofa. He has another cup of tea in his hand.

The Doctor, Graham and Aaron are all in the kitchen. This is the first time Ryan has been on his own with Yaz since they landed here.

‘I’m still on the sofa,’ she reminds him. Her throat still feels raw.

‘Nah, not like that,’ is Ryan’s response. ‘I ain’t dumb. You ain’t talking to her.’

Yaz doesn’t respond.

‘Has the Dalek made you hate her?’

She doesn’t know. She rubs her face and starts undoing her braids.

Ryan waits for an answer, taking sips of his tea in the meantime. When it’s clear she’s not going to respond, he sighs.

‘Well, you gotta let her know soon ‘cause she’s insisted on deconstructing the kettle just so she could do something.’ He stand up. ‘If you want a change of scenery, I’m gonna be up in my room playing on me Xbox. We can play together if you want.’

‘Thank you,’ she nods, and her smile up at him is the first time she’s smiled in over twelve hours.

 

She gets bored of TV and follows him up an hour later.

Ryan’s room is double the size of hers and she’s sort of jealous, but not really. It’s all dark greys and posters of rap artists and Aston Villa memorabilia and it’s definitely not her room.

She’d rather talk about England’s women’s football team than anything else, which she feels ashamed of, but she’ll deal with that later. Ryan, thankfully, humours her. For someone who by and large sticks to men’s footie, Ryan knows quite a lot, so they keep the conversation going for a while until the game loads on his Xbox and they start playing.

They play against each other and it’s fun, it’s distracting, until the level finishes.

‘How’s your neck doing?’ he asks, quite innocuously, not taking his eyes off the loading screen.

Yaz drops her smile. ‘It’s fine now,’ she answers, and reaches back to touch the wet spot. The Doctor was right. It did heal really quickly. She remembers what the Doctor said to her when they found Lin, and as much as she hates the fact that there is still a part of the Dalek on her, she’s glad it’s the only part left.

‘That’ll dry off when the wound closes up,’ she remembers the Doctor telling her in the aftermath. Yaz had nodded vaguely at the sound then, but the words come more clearly to her now. ‘You won’t have any more Dalek on you soon.’

The Doctor had been all over her, not prying but feeling, trying to help as much as possible. Her eyes had never left Yaz from the moment they fell onto the TARDIS floor together.

Yaz has been screwing her eyes shut since.

 

The first person she hugs after the fallout is Graham.

She’s sleeping on the floor of Ryan’s room tonight. They don’t really have enough space for all of them in this house, and the Doctor elected to go back to the TARDIS. Yaz was determined not to spend any more time on that sofa, so staying over to recover has turned into something a little closer to resembling a sleepover.

She maybe had one or two of those in her childhood. One of them was definitely because Sara Wilkinson felt bad for not inviting her. She’s not quite sure how, exactly, this one corroborates.

Yaz has settled onto her sleeping bag and is leafing through one of the few books Ryan has – all of them are mandatory reading for GCSE English, she’s realised – while Ryan lies on his bed and plays a game on his phone. They’re good enough friends now to exist in comfortable silence, and Yaz is thankful for it. She’s all out of her socialisation skills for tonight. The thought of returning to work tomorrow – viable, if she has to stay on Earth – has dampened her mood a lot. But she’ll go to the mosque after, and she’s looking forward to that.

Graham knocks on the door. Yaz is the only one free of any extra material over her legs, so she places her book down and opens the door.

 ‘Late night brew never did anyone any harm,’ he smiles, almost chipper, and hands her two cups of tea. ‘I’ll just be in the living room if you need anything. Ordering a new chair, probably.’

Graham requires at least half an hour to himself every night before bed, Yaz knows. It’s a routine she became aware of during the many nights they spent on the TARDIS. It’s such a comforting thought that as soon as she puts the mugs down on Ryan’s desk, she hugs the older man without preamble.

Graham huffs a little, but aside from that he is gracious and smooth with his response. His embrace is warm and comforting and Yaz realises just how much she appreciates his overseeing, his quick wit and his creature comforts.

More so, she _lets_ herself think it. Basks in it.

It’s good for her.

Ryan has hopped up to collect his tea. ‘Thanks, Gramps,’ he mumbles, before he realises what’s going on.

‘Everything good?’ Graham asks when he and Yaz separate.

She nods. Then she clears her throat. She’s hugged Graham once, maybe twice, in her entire life. ‘Thank you.’

When Graham bids them both goodnight and closes the door, she moves to return to her sleeping bag. But Ryan is in the way. His smile is pleasant, but there’s a little glint in his eye.

He goes mock-serious. ‘What, Granddad can get a hug but I can’t?’ he teases. ‘He’s not the one letting you sleep in his room!’

It makes Yaz grin and she almost rugby tackles Ryan with her hug. The sound of them laughing together – the feeling of Ryan’s chest moving with it, the warmth and the vibration – is freeing.

She hugs Ryan more, but not as much as the Doctor. Her reason is obvious. Nonetheless, she thinks she should hug the two men more.

It’s freeing to let herself love. And let herself show it.

She will not let the Dalek voice inhibit her.

 

‘You going home, then?’

Yaz hoped, apparently to no avail, that she could return her pyjamas to her room in the TARDIS, without bumping into the Doctor. After all, the TARDIS ship is infinite. Quite literally. She can easily avoid any of the ship’s boarders if she’s careful.

She didn’t take into consideration the fact that the Doctor makes everyone’s business _her_ business.

Nor did she factor in the possibility that the Doctor might be looking out for her.

She is so close to the TARDIS doors too. She stops in her tracks and swallows. Breathes out. And turns around. Guilt pours through her, showering her in a waterfall.

The Doctor has kept her distance. Leaning on the console, Yaz knows she’s trying to act casual, but her arms are crossed and she is standing too still to pull it off accurately. Half of her body is illuminated by the light streaming in from the open door, but she’s readable even in shadow.

There’s nothing she can do when it comes to her expression. Maybe in incarnations past, she was better at hiding her emotions; this Doctor’s expressions are always on display, underlined and in bold, with her heart on her sleeve and her eyes tender as anything.

Her eyes are large and gentle, full of worry and concern and just a little bit of hope. Yaz’s heart thumps awkwardly.

She remembers thinking I hate you I hate you, and shame warms her cheeks.

She swallows again, pushes her head high. ‘I’m gonna go to the mosque,’ she responds. ‘And I’ve got my shift.’ She’ll drive from home to her shift in four hours, but she’s not thinking about that right now.

The Doctor nods and glances away.

‘But I’m coming back to Graham’s,’ she feels compelled to add. ‘We can chat then?’

Yaz never really realised until now how sadness is such an intrinsic part of the Doctor. There’s hope in the air between them but it comes off her in waves.

‘Happily,’ she smiles, and Yaz knows it’s good to smile back.

 

It’s been too long since she set foot inside her mosque; as she takes her shoes off, she regales herself with the knowledge that she still prays every day.

It hasn’t been that long for the others here, though, who have a better grip of linear time than Yaz, currently. So they greet her with the usual warmth and humour; they ask what she’s been up to and Yaz shrugs. There’s too much to try and verbalise. They take it how she wants them to, and she feels guilty for that, too, but it’s better than the truth.

She’s come in time for prayer, so after a few small conversations, she takes her place beside a woman she often passes down the street and together they all begin. Yaz is very grateful for the normalcy of the entire thing, even though her life is anything but normal. She relays as such in her prayer, as well as her wish for forgiveness.

She’s asking Allah to forgive her, and asking to forgive herself.

Panic has been spiking through Yaz’s heart ever since she saw the Doctor’s face fall yesterday morning. Before love, before hate, the Doctor is her friend. It hurts to have seen her so upset, even though at the time Yaz was not in any state to be friendly.

 _She has sacrificed you for the taste of Dalek blood._ She’s been wondering why the Doctor did sacrifice her. As much as she’s been feeling guilty for all the hate that coursed through like blood, that question has been burning her the most. Knowing the Doctor would kill her if it came to it. Knowing she is not completely safe.

But she knows, too, that the Doctor reached out for her. Risked her own life for her. Begged Yaz to hold on.

And she knows, too, that she would do exactly the same. Push the same lever, make the same dangerous journey, say the same words. They were explicitly not guaranteed safety. Whatever feelings have come since, they were not a guarantee of safety.

But they did ground her.

In the calmness of prayer, things start to click.

 

The Doctor’s conversation with Graham. Ryan telling her about the Doctor’s tinkering with the kettle. Her words that tethered Yaz to her as she reached out her hand.

The crying. The forehead rest. The confession, over and over again.

The waiting.

She remembers thinking I love you I love you. She remembers hearing it back, but never believing.

 

Her shift is in three hours. But she needs to get to the Doctor. She needs this. She thinks the Doctor does too.

She changes in the TARDIS, still pride of place in Graham’s front room. Ryan, who let her back in, moves off as soon as he sees her heading for the blue doors. Inside her room on the TARDIS, she swaps her loose-hanging clothes for the mosque for her everyday clothes, prepping herself for her conversation with the Doctor.

She chooses her orange jumper with a star on it. It’s the Doctor’s favourite. She’s never verbalised, but Yaz knows anyway.

Yaz knows now.

She steps out to immediately alight upon the Doctor’s presence. The Doctor hasn’t noticed. Her coat is off and she’s sat down on a dining chair with yet another cup of tea. This one seems to be a funny red colour. Must be the Doctor’s ‘improvement’ to the kettle.

Yaz furrows her brow at it but shakes her head.

 ‘I love you,’ she announces, making the Doctor jump about a foot into the air. ‘And the Dalek made me hate you. But I love you, so I don’t hate you.’ She frowns. ‘That sounded better in my head.’

The Doctor’s gaze is back on her now, snapped and locked into place by Yaz’s confession.

‘It was scary knowing I loved you because it made it so much easier for the Dalek,’ Yaz continues. Now she’s started she can’t stop. ‘ _So_ much easier. And knowing what that made me capable of was terrifying. It poisoned everything. I was scared of how much hate I had. And ashamed. I wasn’t made to be like that. The Dalek was so – so – so—’

She breaks off as the tears return and she chokes up. The Doctor is out of her chair and by her side in an instant, and her arms are wrapped around Yaz immediately, and all her wanting disappears.

 

‘You have nothing to be ashamed about,’ the Doctor murmurs, in between kisses placed on her forehead. ‘Absolutely nothing. You fought it off. It doesn’t matter when it happened, just that it did. You made sure it wasn’t going to endanger us.’

‘Because you talked to me,’ she answers. Yaz’s arms are wrapped around the Doctor’s midriff and it reminds her of the aftermath – the fall onto the metal floor, the gripping on for dear life. She thinks she will always feel better like this. ‘You talked me out of it.’

‘Love over hate.’ Yaz can hear the smile in her words. ‘Love is the one thing the Daleks will never conquer.’

‘And you,’ Yaz adds. She breaks away slightly to look at the Doctor. They’re not quite the same height, but they still only see each other’s faces. Eyes wide and tender. Arresting and expressive. Yet there is so much she still hasn’t seen of the Doctor. ‘They are _terrified_ of you. You’ve defeated them so many times.’

The Doctor squirms. ‘How much did it show you?’

‘Every face,’ Yaz answers. ‘Every battle.’

Image after image of death dealt by the Doctor’s hands. Sacrifices and collateral damage; bad decisions, violent decisions, fear and hatred and the Oncoming Storm.

Abject terror.

She has not let go of the Doctor. She doesn’t ever want to.

The Doctor huffs out. ‘I was hoping you never had to see it. I’ve done some awful—’

‘I know. I saw,’ Yaz interrupts, and the Doctor’s eyes go wide. ‘There were things I – I didn’t expect of you. You don’t tell us a lot.’

‘It doesn’t make you nervous?’

In this moment, she is so tense, so vulnerable. The Oncoming Storm reduced to trapped limbs and erratic hearts.

‘A little,’ Yaz decides. ‘But I also know what you’re like now. You reached out for me and that’s what matters. You helped me.’ She pauses. ‘Tell us things, sometimes. When you want to, I mean. But we’d like to know. I want to know you.’

 

Yaz is rolling up the sleeping bag, neat and orderly like she’d been taught on a successful family camping trip – the only successful family camping trip, come to think of it. She smiles at the thought.

‘So you told her?’ Ryan asks.

She jumps a little. ‘Oh my word! Hey to you too.’

‘Did you tell her?’ Ryan repeats. His takes a sip of tea and immediately regrets it. ‘Ugh. What the hell’s in this?’

‘Ask the Doctor,’ she chuckles. She breathes in, lets the smile widen. ‘And, yeah. I told her.’

‘Knew you would,’ and he almost sounds smug.

‘Doctor!’ they hear Graham yell. ‘What the _hell_ have you done to my kettle?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on a side note i'm not muslim and i don't think i've actually set foot in a mosque so i _really_ hope this was respectful and accurate. if it wasn't - then shit i need to get better at researching - please lmk so i can correct it


	15. vulnerability is singing for her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thasmin prompt (inspired by Mandip's tweets) - the Doctor and Yaz are sat on her purple sofa watching David Attenborough's 'Dynasties', one of the animals almost dies and the Doctor gets sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i never saw mandip's tweets so i'm spitballing rn honestly
> 
> featuring: snuggling, the plight of a gorilla, and hands searching for each other.

There are times when the Doctor is so recognisably alien.

The time-travelling spaceship doesn’t have to be the only confirmation; nor does the _thu-thu-dump-dump_ sound of an internal vitality so unnecessarily dissonant.

There are codes of contexts and cultures written into her interactions with other peoples that Yaz, Ryan and Graham will never be able to decipher. Morals and knowledge that they have not yet been privy to.

There are memories and forgettings, gestures natural to the Doctor that leave them eclipsed by ignorance.

Whispers, flying off the Doctor’s coattails; murmurs of the restlessness of stars. A constant chattering, the universe’s very own brightly beaming messenger.

It’ll come to the fore in conversations: customary greetings they know like breathing get disregarded not out of rudeness but inexperience – yet how is the other human to know? The team have to perform better, always, to minimise losing face.

Explaining the idea, even, of losing face.

It’ll appear as a precaution to one of the Doctor’s long rants; like an invisible movie rating screen, analytical and unavoidable and aware of its own lack of awareness, that plays in green screen over the sound of the Time Lord’s words.

It’ll remind Yaz of her impermanence when the Doctor talks of aging, in terms of _thousands_ not _decades_.

It’ll remind Yaz of her conditioning when the Doctor cannot retrieve the histories that bind the conversation between Yaz and Ryan.

It’ll remind Yaz of her presumed mundanity when the Doctor makes the ordinary extraordinary. When she deduces how a vinyl record works. When she tries her first halal doner kebab and claims it the best takeaway food after chips; when Yaz has to remember that a younger-looking blonde Doctor did not walk home from nights out eating the cheapest meats night-time Britain could produce.

Sometimes, the Doctor is so alien that Yaz has to detract herself. The restlessness calls for her – every day and every night, every time she longs to see a different kind of universe. But there is something innate to the Doctor that Yaz will never uncover. She will never be part of that.

The stars whisper after her, but they sing for the Doctor.

And yet, there are times when the Doctor is so recognisably human.

 A body’s warmth ( _her body’s warmth_ ) is nigh on curative. Heat produced by gratitude is a powerful relaxer, and even a single touch from another is a reminder of the gratitude of them living. Yaz is so grateful that the Doctor lives so much; she is grateful that the Doctor gifts her so much heat.

In multiple ways, actually. But watching a David Attenborough documentary is not the most appropriate situation, Yaz thinks, to dwell on that.

Today has been a grey day. Anyone so prone to loneliness in their childhood expects the inevitability of the same grey to return. In quiet moments, and in long moments; when she is far away from either place she calls home; it hits. When she is untethered and unsure, it is easy to forget herself in the grey and greyer still.

In these moments, family is preferable: a phone call from her sister, or hugs from her parents. Ryan and Graham, too, have their own ways to cheer her up.

But the Doctor is special. The stars sing for her. She is at once a distraction and a medicine.

How can Yaz not be arrested by her touch?

Tucked away deep into the intricate infinities of the Doctor’s spaceship, there is a room. Impossibly – it is, after all, a product of the TARDIS – the room maintains the feel of a hideaway, an attic room. It resides on the right side of cramped. Plush white carpets and snow painted walls are uninterrupted; save for a kettle and a coffee machine placed like penguins on plum shelving, fit into a wall corner as not to take up any more space. Not two steps away is the entrance of the lair. Lavender sheets drape down to the floor from the ceiling, adorned with fairy lights inside. Protected, encased, are Yaz and the Doctor, barely visible to each other under the piles of blankets they have dumped onto their deep purple sofa.

Yaz has never felt more comfort in her life.

Ryan and Graham assume that the two women disappear off into a bedroom during their ‘girls’ time’. They are completely unaware of this little hideaway.

She almost feels bad for keeping this place secret, but there are purple sofas abound on this ship. This one seems to be hers. It is not wrong to appreciate something pure on her own, if the intentions are right.

She is watching the Doctor watch the TV set they have hidden away with them. The fairy lights are soft but the TV screen glares at them in bright white. Angles and shadows are more severe on the Doctor’s boxy face here. Yaz prefers the gold of the console room; she prefers being tricked into seeing evidence that the Doctor does glow.

Yaz watches her all the same, takes note of the shapes, the dip of her neck that appears when the Doctor reaches closer to the screen.

She has barely been paying attention to the screen.

She knows there are gorillas. She knows there is a fight for dominance. Gorilla family dynamics are more vicious than she had realised – not that she often dwells on the social activities of primates – but she was mistaken in thinking it would be a calming episode. Even David Attenborough’s mellifluous narration is not enough to save her attention span, nor is he enough to bestow technicolour upon her day.

She has been watching the Doctor instead.

Tense scenes on the telly incite a barely restrained frenzy in the alien, who is almost on the edge of her seat with anticipation. Yaz detects when the fighting starts because the rustling is loud – on the show, but also of the blanket layers they are submerged in.

‘God, that’s awful!’ the Doctor utters, and she leans in further, transfixed. There is less than half a metre between her button nose and the TV box.

Yaz can only guess what the Doctor is thinking. Deducing, even. With a brain as enormous as hers, the whirring of it is largely unknown to Yaz. Some of it she can guess – patterns and personality traits, charms and endearments – but other times, the Doctor is truly alien.

Now, Yaz thinks the Doctor is noting every gorilla and their interaction. Every wrong move and every injury. Strategy and motivation. Watching is understanding. She is learning more and more about this world.

The crescendo rises and falls, and the devastation of the uprising makes itself known. A cursory glance at the screen bathes her in yellows and greens, and small marks of deep, deep red: the alpha, lying on the dirt floor, stricken and broken. His thumb is severed, and blood oozes from multiple injuries. He is unmoving.

And the Doctor gasps – this long, drawn out devastation. She cannot contain her concern. Her heartbreak cracks planets. Yaz wants to hold her, wipe away the tumble of her lips to make her smile again. By any means possible. Somehow, in amongst the undulating layers of cotton and plush comfort, the Doctor’s hand seeks Yaz’s, finds it after pushing through the ends and middles of all the blankets. Her fingers are warm – always warm, to warm up the clammy cold of Yaz’s own detachment – as they embrace and interlink.

Yaz’s head jolts, from staring at the screen to blinking at the Doctor.

In this moment, the Doctor is so very human. Intimately connected to the vulnerabilities of a vulnerable life; consideration extending into emotion, into expression. She is as human for caring for a gorilla as she is alien for not knowing it.

A keen sense of vulnerability.

On the screen in front of them, the wait is long. But a hand twitches. Then other limbs. The miraculous comeback: vulnerability and determination incarnate. There is so much to learn from him.

The Doctor draws out an uttering of relief. Her hand squeezes Yaz’s again as she leans back. She rests back on the sofa again, and her breathing is a little irregular; a little frenzied by the triumph of life.

When the Doctor looks to her best friend, she finds Yaz already watching her, the softest beam on her face. Triumphs of vulnerability. Smiles and squeezed hands, and colour is blossoming.

This is what she and the stars have in common. With her heart thumping out of beat, Yaz is singing for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i, too, wish i could have a makeshift sheet tent for when i'm sad. all my problems would be solved immediately


	16. pursue thy affections in an ice cream van

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh you said you were open to Thasmin prompts so may I suggest Thasmin + ice cream?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys really like your ice cream prompts don't you
> 
> featuring: the doctor doesn't believe in hiring vehicles, a child yeets themselves into the side of a van, and the iconic classical piece heard all over britain, ['greensleeves'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7vMjddmK0w), becomes the soundtrack for a high-speed pursuit.

‘I can’t believe you got an ice cream van.’

The three of them are standing outside of Graham’s house, in various states of disbelief. Parked on the curb sits the Doctor’s new... acquisition, a monstrosity on the eyes, the gaudiest type of van to ever roam the streets of Britain.

‘I can,’ Yaz responds to Ryan’s open-mouthed utterance.

The Doctor, it seems, has bought an ice cream van that has intensified its own nature. Gone are the pretty pinks and the calm orange pastels of years before; this van boasts of at least seven different colours, all bold and bright and beautiful, splashed all over its exterior. On its front and rear twirl different cartoons, from iconic Looney Tunes characters to cartoon aliens that Yaz has never seen before in her life. She thinks she glimpsed a Scooby-Doo on the other side, too, but none of the rest of the gang. On the serving side of the van, the ubiquitous ‘Mr. Whippy’ logo takes up most of the room, a typeface copied on the front of the van. On the roof, two ginormous painted metal ice creams spin on an axis in tandem.

Yaz doesn’t even want to consider how obnoxiously loud the ice cream van’s jingle will be.

The Doctor has never looked prouder, of course. Her arms are wider than the sun as she shows off her newest hobby; her grin deep-set and all-encompassing. Her eyes crinkle with delight. She can barely contain herself.

It makes sense, Yaz thinks, that she would take this mission to the next level. Her exasperation is quickly dissipating: it’s easy to forgive the Doctor for her wild plans when they make her smile like _that_.

‘I...’ Graham stutters. ‘Doc, you’ve genuinely made me speechless. Proper speechless.’

‘Ey, and that don’t happen too much, does it?’ Ryan grins to Yaz.

‘It’s just...’ They wait, curious, as Graham tries in earnest to find the words appropriate for this moment. He constantly has to adjust his crossed arms, his eyebrows getting more and more furrowed. The Doctor has started lowering her arms by the time he reaches the right response. ‘H...How?’

Yaz shrugs. That’s fair.

The Doctor has endeavoured to inspect every inch of her new van, checking, no doubt, for any improvements she could make. ‘If you _must_ know, I have a mate up in Leeds who sells them.’ She disappears behind the back of the van, though her voice still carries. ‘I say mate. I mean acquaintance.’ A pause. ‘I say acquaintance. I mean someone I met.’

Yaz hums. ‘You found it on the internet, didn’t you?’

The Doctor’s head pops up to the side, and she points a finger at Yaz. ‘But she were very lovely, I’ll have you know! She were dead pleased, said she don’t really get customers anymore. Unless, of course, they’re from—'

‘The United Federation of Ice-Cream Creators,’ the three humans echo in unison.

‘See; you’re learning!’ the Doctor crows, and appears only to disappear again, into the van to inspect its contents.

Buying an ice cream from the ice cream van in summer was a highlight of their repeated childhood memories, no matter which generation they belong to. Graham swears up and down that the vans haven’t changed much since he was young, though the ice cream van could park anywhere back then, unlike now with all these cars clogging up the streets. For Ryan, ice cream vans always indicated refreshment after playing out with his mates – he of all of them would appreciate the cool refreshment after all the hard work. Yaz’s prevailing memory is of her local ice cream van man: a walking Italian stereotype who refused to call any of the girls by a name other than Rebecca or Jessica. At several points throughout her childhood, Yaz was called both Rebecca _and_ Jessica during one single purchase.

It’s with these memories in mind that they follow her into the van – not only because they tend to follow, but because, they, too, are curious. Stepping closer to peer inside feels like a betrayal of the childhood mystery, but they’re pulled to it regardless.

It simply looks off-white; functional, extremely claustrophobic, and a little underwhelming. But if the expression on her face is anything to go by, it’s the Doctor’s idea of paradise.

Yaz is the first to step inside. She’s the first to follow; she always has been. In the cramped line the space inside the van allows, Yaz becomes situated against the Doctor, pressed up close and comfy. It’s a happy coincidence that the Doctor’s arm has to reach over her shoulder to point at the whippy dispenser and the empty cardboard boxes waiting to be filled with 99 Flakes.

The Doctor choosing to rest her arm on Yaz’s shoulder afterwards is not such a coincidence. Ryan and Graham are taking the time to do their own preliminary investigations, passing comments to each other in the light tone they’ve both grown to depend on from one another. (This isn’t without difficulty, though. Graham is desperately trying to decode Ryan’s rhetorical question of whether screwball ice creams ‘deserve rights’.) Knowing the other two are distracted, Yaz takes the time to sink into the feeling of the Doctor around her, letting her head rest on the Doctor’s. She smells like honey, and engine oil, and peppermint. They breathe in together and revel in the feeling: the both of them free to display affection like this. Finally, finally.

It evolved slowly, intensifying, like taking a deep breath. First it was the handholding, electrifying when sparse and comforting when established; long looks and good-natured teasing were followed by hugs, and longer hugs, and holding on. Then came the peak, lungs filled with anticipation – clandestine kisses shared in the dark and in the quick moments. Settling into rhythms and understanding each other in ways they wouldn’t have otherwise.

Yaz knows what the Doctor’s lips taste like in the morning, and the exact way she likes her tea. She knows that the Doctor is ticklish on the insides of her elbows and the undersides of her feet. The Doctor has read and reread Yaz’s favourite childhood books, Philip Pullman’s _His Dark Materials_ trilogy, just so she can match Yaz’s pace and fervour whenever it is somehow brought up in conversation. Almost every time the Doctor holds Yaz’s hand, and especially when they’re alone, she’ll make the effort to flip her hand over and kiss Yaz’s palm with a tenderness that makes the other woman tremble.

In other words, Yaz is absolutely head over heels for the Doctor. And she’s pretty sure it’s being reciprocated, too.

Not that they’ve really verbalised what this is. Hand holding and kissing and genuine comfort is one thing; giving the dynamic foundational support is another. It’s the question that’s kept her awake almost every night since, but Yaz doesn’t want to break this. The Doctor tends to be slow on social cues, and Yaz doesn’t want to rush her.

The Doctor might just not be into labels.

‘What d’you think?’ the Doctor murmurs.

Being pulled out of one’s deliberations gets no less jolting – it does, in fact, take Yaz by surprise to a higher degree thanks to the Doctor’s proximity. Her lips are close enough to Yaz’s ears that she’d hear the Doctor whisper even over the din of the van’s engine. It does wonders for a part of her she’s not at all prepared to dwell on in an ice cream van. It’s this reminder – that the Doctor’s talking about a flipping ice cream van – that brings her to her senses.

‘I think you’re an idiot,’ she replies, bring up a hand to hold the Doctor’s hand so leisurely draped over Yaz’s body. The Doctor’s hands are cool, reassuring, where her own burn hot. ‘What happens if we’re still monitoring the Federation for longer than a week? Won’t you have to take it back and lose your cover?’

The Doctor frowns, an expression that moulds her lips into what Yaz and Ryan fondly call a “scronch”. ‘Why would I be taking this back if I bought it?’

Yaz sighs.

‘Doctor, I swear to—'

* * *

 

Quite a lot of Yaz’s life sounds like something out of a conspiracy theorist’s overactive imagination. Thankfully, the Moon landing was not faked; and the world, she can confirm, is overwhelmingly round – but she can personally attest to aliens walking amongst humans on Earth. And more besides.

Sometimes it’s so crazy that she can’t quite believe it herself.

If you told her two years ago that the ice cream van industry was being targeted by an alien species determined to steal the original Mr. Whippy recipe from Earth and claim ownership of the delicacy throughout the known universe – she would’ve laughed you out of the room.

But, well, here she is. Trying to stop ice cream thieves.

Ryan and Graham were assigned the roles of faithful customers, parading the scorching streets of Sheffield in order to build a rapport with the city’s ice cream sellers. All those pound coins being spent (mostly Graham’s) have, eventually, paid off: they’ve compiled an effective list of who they believe to be local Federation colleagues, aliens the four of them should attempt to befriend in order to get inside information.

It’s up to the Doctor and Yaz, then, to sell the alibi – and plenty of ice creams in the meantime. While it’s the Doctor who mans the van first and foremost, Yaz joins her when police work isn’t demanding her attendance. The ice cream selling is much more preferable to patrolling the county in a roasting police uniform.

Summer 2019 has been swinging, temperature-wise, from the boring to the truly worrying. In a week where the weather has alternated between torrential rain and record-breaking heat, the two women have had a wildly varying record of success. Sometimes they’ve sat with the serving window up to see no passers-by in sight. Not that they would be able to glimpse them, anyway, behind the incessant raindrops splattering the serving window. Other times, they’ve had impatient queues consisting of the entire park they’ve visited: harassed and harangued parents struggling to keep their kids happy in the sweltering heat; groups of kids in vital need of sustenance after all their playing; older residents cashing in on the opportunity to indulge in nostalgia. Such is British weather.

The Doctor has taken to selling ice cream like a duck to water. She may not be socially tactful, but her enthusiasm around people more than makes up for it. She makes the process of making ‘Mr. Whippy’ ice creams into a show for the kids to enjoy. She juggles the ice lollies before presenting them to her amused customers, despite the little space the ice cream van provides. She can be heard whistling the ice cream van’s jingle, ‘Greensleeves’, even after her work for the day is done. There’s a knack to ice cream selling, Yaz believes, and the Doctor has it in spades.

Sometimes they even forget they’re meant to be keeping a lookout for the Federation. It’s so easy to slip into this routine, switching between serving the public as a police officer and serving the public their much-needed ice cream. Spending her time with the Doctor, floating around each other in the van guided more by the touch of fingertips on familiar clothes than by sight; it feels like something they could get settled into.

Apparently it shows.

They get looks, the Doctor and Yaz. Very specific looks. Yaz is not often in the back of the ice cream van whilst the Doctor is serving, but whenever she makes her way down, hands on the Doctor’s back as she moves, she’ll sometimes catch a glimpse of recognition from the customers. The ice cream van is a two-way mirror through which society can look at itself – the Doctor and Yaz get a feel for the surrounding community, and the customers, too, get a feel for them.

Sometimes they’re parents, surprised to see such tenderness between two women. (Sometimes their acknowledgement is one of distaste. Not always, but sometimes; Yaz does her best to stare back, to make them uncomfortable.) Sometimes, they are gay couples, and the look passed between them is one of solidarity more than anything else.

Sometimes they’re just curious kids, learning more and more about the world each day.

‘Are you two girlfriends?’

Wearing a football shirt drenched with sweat, the girl stands and waits patiently with her mother for a well-earned 99 Flake.

 ‘Idha!’ the mother scolds her.

Amongst the recognition of her own mini heart attack, Yaz estimates that the kid must be about 9, no older. There’s no sort of disdain coming from her. She’s just a curious little girl.

Still, that doesn’t make answering her question any easier. Honestly, Yaz was just in the back to pinch a 99 flake. That mission has backfired massively. Her heartbeat picks up.

She knows what she’d _like_ to say. She knows that whatever answer is given now will determine the answer to that question for a while yet.

Yaz presumed the Doctor was too busy concentrating on perfecting the twirl of the ice cream to pay attention.

But the Doctor takes her by surprise. One perfect ice cream is presented, Flake squished in, with an equally made-up smile. As Yaz opens her mouth to speak – to say what, she doesn’t know – the Doctor jumps in.

‘Me and Yaz? We’re partners in crime, we are,’ she responds, with a wink. ‘Not literally. She’s a police officer, you know.’

Partners in crime. Right.

(She can’t help but notice the disappointment fizzling in her body.)

This seems to placate both child and mother long enough for the significance of the question to be forgotten. They pay for the treat – the girl utters a very polite, ‘Thank you, miss!’ – and leave.

Yaz is returning to the driver’s seat to eat her Flake in peace, but the Doctor catches her eye for just a second as they manoeuvre around the small space. The Doctor’s gaze is acquiescent; filled with a longing Yaz can’t quite place.

‘Was that—?’

The Doctor’s words are cut off by the _thump_ of a small child managing to catapult themselves straight into the ice cream van.

* * *

 

Alone time, when the great British public have not deigned the two women with their presence, is preferable for interests other than sugary cold treats. Especially when the clouds are dumping a month’s worth of rain in about three hours.

She’s been trying her hardest not to be distracted these past few days, but it’s easier said than done when it’s just been the two of them in this van. Their duty to the public comes first, of course, but in the midst of many an explicit look, Yaz has never been happier to forget her promise to serve the public their ice cream.

Besides, making out with the Doctor is so much more fun.

It’s a very middling Friday; after the ridiculous heat of Thursday, the temperatures have comparatively plummeted to around 21 degrees. The clouds overhead have sent kids running indoors, nervous about the deluge to come. A few brave souls have wandered on parched pavements, though; a couple of them have even wanted a cool treat.

Yaz’s shift doesn’t start until 7pm, so she’s free to assist the Doctor in her ice cream escapades for three more hours or so. On this slow day, she’s been the one doing the driving whilst the Doctor busies herself with stock-checking or fiddling with this strange handheld invention the Doctor has brought on board.

She can’t really understand it. There are at least three levers, and a winding gear. It has what Yaz can only conclude is a dog cone fixed hastily onto one of its ends. Whenever she has tried to ask what on _Earth_ the entire contraption may be, the Doctor has been far too preoccupied to answer.

‘What are we even gonna do when we uncover the Federation ice cream sellers?’ she wonders. She has to make her voice loud over the sound of the engine, kept on even when they’re stationary in order to keep the ice creams cool. Getting out of the driver’s seat, she steps into the serving area to find the Doctor bent down, inspecting her rapidly depleted supply of strawberry syrup. The dog coned invention languishes at her feet, bleeping infrequently.

‘I dunno, really,’ is the Doctor’s reply, her voice stretched by her movement as she stands back up. Leaning with one hand on the van’s windowsill, she continues, ‘I’m definitely reporting them to the Shadow Proclamation, though. There are about 300 different laws on the issue of original content being stolen from species who haven’t developed enough to defend their planetary property – the Federation are breaking every single one of them.’

Coatless, with sleeves rolled back, she looks just a little more unkempt than usual, frazzled in the best way by a new hobby keeping her busy. She’s positively glowing – not from the regeneration energy, this time – and Yaz is a little more than attracted to the sight.

Yaz has to swallow it down. ‘But what about in the meantime? Surely the threat of the Shadow Proclamation won’t stop them from continuing their business right now?’

‘You’d think that, wouldn’t you?’ the Doctor muses. It’s hard, in a small space such as this, getting somewhere with so much energy, but Yaz can only describe her movement as floating – getting closer and closer to Yaz. ‘But no. The Redeto know just how little power they have in the universe. Stealing a soon-to-be popular recipe will pay off big time if successful, but the repercussions are huge. They know the stakes here.’ The Doctor shrugs. ‘Maybe if I promise I won’t rat them out.’

‘That’s if they give you an audience,’ Yaz points out. It’s a strong point, but it peters off into nothingness now the Doctor has moved so close. Their noses are almost touching. Yaz can see hazel green; wide pupils.

Her heartbeat is off the charts.

The Doctor doesn’t bother to attempt a corny line. There’s no need now she knows Yaz is unofficially, but totally, hers. Instead, her indication of intent comes in the form of nervous hands, swooping up to caress Yaz’s face. Everything is still new; with warm touch, Yaz’s skin is set on fire.

She is the one to push forward and press their lips together. It’s such a relief, every time, like breathing out after holding her breath for too long. They gasp for each other in between kisses and Yaz can feel it, that mutuality, that simplest of desires, to hold and be held. Her hands slip down the Doctor’s mustard suspenders, and she thanks her lucky stars that this feeling – this experience – is something she gets to indulge in. She’d be thankful for an only time. She’s lost count of how many times they’ve kissed now, and she grows every day in her gratitude.

She’s lost all sense of the outside world – just pressing herself further into the joy of it, the relief that comes with knowing the Doctor still wants to kiss. She’s quite forgotten that they’re stood at the serving area, kissing slow then fast, hard and tender, with open mouths and roaming hands.

She wishes she could do this all the time.

There comes a point where attention must be paid, however, to something else other than the Doctor. At a slow moment within the kiss, the Doctor stills and stalls in her previously successful endeavour of pushing her hands underneath Yaz’s jacket. Yaz immediately pulls away, regretting the absence of warm hands and confusion starting to crease her brow – until she hears it too.

Another engine. She tries to calm her heartbeat.

‘Is that...?’

‘Probably.’ The Doctor swallows, attempting to compose herself. ‘We’ve got company.’

Peeking through the serving area’s closed window, they can see an idling ice cream van. The décor is much duller than the Doctor’s – practical, toned down and perfect. It’s a perfectly respectable paint job for a perfectly respectable person – and that would be fine, of course, if it weren’t for the fact that the person in the van is very much not a person. Not a human person, anyway.

Yaz recognises the van right away – one of the people on the list. Ryan and Graham have known about this Redeto for a while, and they tasked Yaz and the Doctor to keep an eye on him. Apparently, they weren’t subtle. The stern, dangerous look on his face is indication enough. To his left, another person bends forward and makes himself known.

Two of them.

Knowing your cover might be blown is different to actually having your cover blown. Yaz keeps eye contact with the Doctor as their expressions slacken with dread. Was it their discussion? Was it Ryan and Graham? It doesn’t particularly matter.

The Redeto are not known for being considerate.

‘You alright to start driving the van?’ the Doctor asks politely, a light confidence in her voice that would be reassuring were it not for its total falsity.

Yaz gets to it. Their moment of being together is over, very over. With no small feeling of reluctance, she disentangles herself from the warmth of the Doctor’s body and makes her way to the driver’s seat, nearly tripping over the Doctor’s contraption as she does.

Almost three years of driving has prepared her enough for the small feat of piloting the ice cream van. Thereabouts, anyway. The van lurches into motion as soon as she eases her foot off the clutch and she grimaces, embarrassed. But they’re on their way.

The other ice cream van immediately follows.

Yaz swallows. They’re definitely within the realms of being chased now. This is new to her; she’s usually the one pursuing, checking for escape routes to block and ways to guide the target into stopping. On the flipside, the mounting pressure is starting to get to her.

She would not want to be in the shoes of a criminal, Yaz thinks. It’s bad enough being pursued by an ice cream van.

She takes a deep breath and presses down on the accelerator, hard. The van groans in response but reacts as best it can. It unsettles the Doctor’s balance in the back of the van.

 ‘Keep going, Yaz!’ she shouts, the bleeping from her invention almost a second rallying cry. ‘We can try to evade him!’

She’s on the flipside – but, Yaz realises, she can use that to her advantage. Her knowledge of Sheffield’s roads is bone-deep; better, she imagines, than an alien following the popular routes where customers would most likely be. She finds an opening and makes a sharp turn, the tyres screeching and the ice cream machines rattling raucously. Terraced houses whizz by; Yaz catches a glimpse of a mother in pyjamas putting out the bins; her eyes wide, her mouth open at the sight before – and then after – her.

This sort of scene would usually be accompanied by a dramatic film score; a heart-raising drumbeat, maybe a few electric guitars. Instead, the street is treated to the shriek of ‘Greensleeves’ as the ice cream van thunders past.

‘Yasmin Khan, you are my hero!’ the Doctor praises. ‘Nice job. Time to head for the TARDIS, don’t you th—’

‘Doctor, he’s back,’ Yaz interrupts, catching sight of him in her wing mirror. Just because she turned so quickly, it doesn't mean he couldn’t catch up. He must have found a shortcut too, she thinks. Damn. She switches gears to accommodate for the upcoming hill. A red light flashes into existence at the top of it, and a three-car-long queue has built up.

‘You’re kidding,’ she whispers. She has to stop. She is, after all, a law-abiding citizen – and a police officer. She’s the last person to defy a red light.

Waiting for the amber light gives the Federation ice cream van enough time to catch up. As they line up in adjacent lanes, the Redeto in the driver’s seat turns to look at Yaz. Yaz looks back, a disapproving frown planted very firmly on her face. And his smile widens into a smug. Weirdo, she thinks.

The green light returns, finally, and they are restricted by the cars in front for a little while. But, once more, as soon as Yaz sees an opening away from the queue, she takes it – tyres screech and the Doctor is thrown into the 99 Flakes box. The Federation van follows suit, and gains steadily as they run through a green, an amber, another green. Their van has more horsepower, the two women come to realise; once again the two ice cream vans line up. Yaz goes into another gear and speeds up, pushing past the speed limit, but it’s not enough to lose them.

The driver smiles at her again as he winds down his window. Yaz grumbles under her breath. Then the passenger leans forward again, this time having procured with a rather gun-like weapon.

She gasps – ducks her head. Just in time. The shot goes over her head, singing a couple of her hairs – and breaking both windows of the van’s driving compartment. It shatters with a high-pitched sound, and Yaz yelps.

The van veers to the left but she rights it. ‘Doctor, do something!’ she shouts over the noise of the engine. ‘He’s shooting at me!’

‘Yes, I saw!’ the Doctor shouts back. Yaz swerves the van onto another street – another residential area. Mercifully, there are no kids playing. The turn upsets the Doctor’s journey to the driving compartment, but with her free hand she holds onto the passenger seat.

The Redeto’s weapon, it seems, needs to power up again. Yaz takes the moment to glimpse at the Doctor – sleeves rolled up past her elbows, blonde hair flyaway, a few strands falling down past her forehead onto her face. There’s an intensity in the way she’s set her jaw. As she winds up the invention tucked under her arm, her right arm’s muscles tense and relax.

Yaz finds it amazing how, in the middle of being shot at, she still finds time to be wholly distracted by how impressive the Doctor looks.

Then they’re shot at again – the Doctor jumps back, Yaz compressing herself into a crouch – and she focuses on the task at hand. Namely, driving. They soar over a speed bump and the shock of the landing is particularly hard. Something in the back of the van breaks open. They return to a wider road. Still, the Federation van keeps up.

‘Now, please, Doctor!’ Yaz yells.

The buzzing of the Doctor’s contraption gets more and more frequent until it blends into one sound. A whirring starts up, like a whistling kettle, and the Doctor’s grin gets wide.

‘Show time,’ she breathes.

With a couple of steps, the Doctor places her body in the way of Yaz, so neither Redeto can destabilise the womens’ van. Hoisting the contraption onto her shoulder, she points the cone-end forward at the Redeto drivers and yanks down a lever. White hot light surrounds the machinery.

‘Oi!’ the Doctor shouts. ‘Stop shooting at my girlfriend!’ She presses a button, and a stream of white light gets propelled towards the Federation van.

Yaz and the Doctor speed away, but in the wing mirror, Yaz can witness what the contraption has done to their pursuers. The white light envelopes the surfaces of the ice cream van; with the two men stuck inside, they are caught in the consequences. The van completely freezes – momentum dissipating in the afternoon air – and nothing escapes. Not a sound, not a single movement. Hair does not sway. Arms do not collapse. The steering wheel does not turn.

They are simply suspended.

The sight of them in her mirror gets smaller and smaller, until they become inconsequential. Nothingness has never seemed so explicitly still. Yaz turns another corner and eases the van into a more residential-friendly speed. At this pace, the incessant ‘Greensleeves’ blaring through the ice cream van’s speakers feels less frantic.

Yaz huffs out a relieved breath.

‘Aw, mate,’ the Doctor beams from beside her. ‘I was hoping that would work.’

Yaz doesn’t want to entertain the alternative. ‘Wh-what was that?’ she asks. Her eyes are still on the road; even though the Federation van has been... apprehended, she still wants to get them as far away as possible.

The Doctor jumps into the passenger seat, already investigating the state of her contraption. The whirring has stopped, the light disappeared; the beeping, at least, is much more regular now. ‘That was a makeshift Time Stop,’ she explains. ‘Does what it says on the tin. I need this to reverse the effects, so they continue to be exactly how they were in the moment they got stopped, but by that time we’ll be much better prepared for them.’ She winds it up, and it bleeps at her. ‘I know, I know! Look, we’ll charge you when we get inside the TARDIS, alright?’ With that thought, she looks up at Yaz. ‘Can you head there now?’

Yaz nods, and changes direction.

It takes a minute or so of relative quietness – ‘Greensleeves’ is still playing, the twee high pitch fuelling Yaz’s irritation – when her brain catches up fully with the afternoon’s events. The tension of being pursued has melted away to reveal perfect memory.

She jolts in her seat.

‘Doctor,’ she says.

The Doctor jumps. ‘Yeah?’

‘You called me your girlfriend,’ Yaz states, her voice carefully devoid of anything emotional.

‘Yeah,’ the Doctor repeats, and the guilt seeps through. ‘Sorry; wasn’t thinking.’

Yaz keeps quiet, expecting the Doctor to elaborate.

It’s one of the hardest feats she’s ever achieved.

‘Sorry if that made you uncomfortable. Was just caught up in the moment, see. And when they shot at you like that – twice! – it just riled me up. Didn’t think.’ She pauses. ‘Should’ve had the conversation first, shouldn’t we?’

Yaz can’t keep the smile hidden any longer. A quick look to her left secures their eye contact. ‘I liked it,’ she shrugs, and in real time she sees the Doctor swell with delight. ‘You can keep calling me that, if you like.’

‘I will,’ the Doctor beams. She jumps up to attend to the serving area – but not before pressing a kiss to Yaz’s cheek.

The sheer joy of this revelation comes off the both of them in waves. Yaz thinks she may just appreciate ice cream vans a bit more now.

Sometimes her life is so crazy that she can’t quite believe it herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact i used real-life inspiration for yaz's ice cream van man; my local ice cream van man is just _so_ italian he's so pure and i honestly love him so much


End file.
